


One of Many

by aspengrove



Category: Palaye Royale (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, Gen, Is there a better tag for that? One that people actually use? Let me know., Mystery, No gendered pronouns for reader, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 08:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15837645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspengrove/pseuds/aspengrove
Summary: Your friend is the latest to go missing in a string of disappearances that have put everyone in the city on edge. With the police unwilling to do anything, you set out to find answers for yourself. But you soon realize there may be far more to this mystery than the human realm.A Victorian adventure with magic, mystery, and joining forces with the Palaye Royale boys to save the day. (Written in second person and no gendered pronouns for reader, so however you identify, you can help solve the mystery.)Choose your own adventure: Start at chapter 1, and the decision you make will direct you to your beginning (chapters 2, 3 and 4). All have the same middle part (chapter 5) and there are three possible endings to choose from (chapters 6, 7, and 8.)





	1. Introduction: It's Your Choice

“And why do you think this Violet girl is missing?” 

The face of a police officer looking down at you from behind the polished wooden counter in the station, his chest puffed out under the strict rows of brass buttons on his navy jacket. There was something unusually menacing about his mustache. The normally-silly facial hair you saw on customers who paraded through when you were at work seemed to be symbols of vanity. They were an accessory that complemented the bespoke fabrics, precise measurements, and latest styles of sportcoats and trousers. On this man, however, it was something almost sinister. Like it was hiding what he was thinking. 

“We live in the same building and she always comes home on time,” you explain. “I’ve known her for four years and she never goes out to the pubs after dinner. She never misses a day of work. Please, no one’s heard from her since she left work yesterday evening.” 

“M-hm,” he responds, his tone doubtful. “And how old is this Violet?” 

“She’s my age. Please, we’re all worried something terrible has happened to her. She wouldn’t just disappear like this.”

“A charming man can make any woman disappear,” he says, turning away to look through some papers on the desk. “She’s probably shacked up with him by now, or afraid to show her face if he left her after he was done with her.” 

“Sir!” Your voice is louder and sharper than you thought it would be. Several other officers at desk behind the counter look up at you. The officer at the counter grows more rigid.  
“I would not use that tone here,” he warns you. 

“Sorry, but there have been disappearances all over Old Weft. Don’t you think it could be connected? The paper is reporting ten but I know it’s more than that, and it’s been going on longer. Don’t you think that’s something you should investigate?” 

“Mr. Winston who has a successful business, a young wife and a child? Yes, that’s suspicious. Some unmarried girl goes out for a pint and doesn’t come back to her house mother? Check the mail. She’ll send you a postcard in a month when she’s married the man.” The officer sorts a few paper memos into piles. “Either that, or check the whorehouses.” 

“People are going missing!” You don’t care about your tone anymore. “They could have been killed under your own noses and you’re still calling yourselves protectors?” 

The station is suddenly a bit quieter. More than a few of the other officers are looking at you now but you really couldn’t give a damn. 

The officer draws himself up to look even taller. “I would watch what you say about us, because one day you might find a friend of yours in real trouble.” He leans over the desk and his flat beady eyes stare straight at you. “Now if you don’t get out of here I will have you removed, do you understand? I can’t have you disturbing the peace in a police station, of all places.” He lowers his voice to hiss “Get out.” 

Outside the station, you stand blankly watching the people walking by in the narrow cobbled street. The air has a new hint of cold in it, just enough to remind you what crisp fall mornings will be like. Lost in thought and trying to calm down, you barely register the people in colorful dresses, frock coats, tailored trousers, carrying baskets and boxes, canes and folded parasols, going home for the day, like Violet was. 

If the authorities aren’t going to investigate, you have no choice but to try to do it yourself. 

The sun is slowly setting, casting rays of light on the tops of the buildings. You’ll have to figure out what to do, and fast. The more time that passes after Violet went missing, the less people are likely to know or remember, and the less you’re likely to find. 

You could try re-tracing the route Violet probably took that night from the shop to home. Would you be able to find anything significant along the way?  
[To re-trace Violet’s steps, go to Chapter 2: The Shadows. TW: attempted abduction, blood.] 

You could go to the pub on the corner that you and Violet always pass on the way back home. Someone might have seen her last night, or know more about the disappearances.  
[To go to the pub and ask around, go to Chapter 3: The Lost Boy. TW: enclosed spaces, blood.] 

You could go to the newspaper office. They’ve reported some of the disappearances, but not all of them. Maybe someone there knows something, or you could tell a reporter about the disappearances that they don’t know about.  
[To go to the newspaper office, go to Chapter 4: The Reason.]


	2. The Shadows

Starting at the shop where Violet works, you start walking home. You’re not sure what you’re looking for, exactly. You walk past 6th street. Maybe you’ll find a scrap of fabric. Drag marks in an alley? Something that might have caught her eye? Your scan fervently, but it isn’t easy to see much at dusk, when the sun has just set but the lamps haven’t been lit yet. You get closer to the corner of 7th street. 

You’re not usually out so late, when shadows bunch in the corners and there are only a few scattered people left walking through. They’re all walking at least in pairs. Maybe it’s the disappearances; maybe it’s just common sense. You cross 7th street, a horse-drawn carriage clopping and clattering away, the sounds bouncing off the buildings growing softer. 

Nothing looks unusual, but maybe that’s the point. With so many people going missing, whoever was responsible wouldn’t have gotten away with it unless they looked normal, or left no trace. 

A taller man in a striped suit, walking alone, is coming towards you. Just in case, you cross the street to the other side. 

And then something catches your eye: movement from an alley. Movement of what you can’t tell, so against every instinct in your mind, you walk a little closer to the entrance of the alley, and step gingerly into the darkness. 

Cold, hard fingers clamp over your mouth, and a sharp tug yanks you further into the dark. 

Flailing, you lash out with your elbow, striking whoever it is across the face. The hand on your mouth loosens and you tear it off and let out a scream, hoping that if someone doesn’t come help, someone might at least remember hearing you disappear. 

An arm circles your waist and pins your arms to your sides. The grip is like steel and a hand closes over your mouth again. You’re lifted, your feet kicking in the air. 

“Hey!”

A voice, yelling. Approaching the alley. You catch a glimpse of the man in the striped suit running towards you, a slim sword in his left hand, glinting in the ambient light of the main street. 

You’re pulled back, fast, but the man catches up to you, striking the arm around your waist with a dive and a flick of the sword. 

A screech like a cat with vocal chords of rusted metal cuts through the air as the figure lets go of you. You dive forward and head for the entrance of the alley. Glancing behind you, the man in the suit dodges a strike from the figure, moving in fluidly to where it left itself open. He stabs at its midsection and it draws back. 

The figure is difficult to see in the shadows, as it wears a long hooded black overcoat that seems to meld it straight into the dark. But the man in the suit appears to have no problem following its moves. 

The figure shrinks back slowly. 

“Who are you?” the man demands, the sword leveled at the figure. “Who are you? I command you tell me.” 

He takes a step forward. 

Faster than you can register, the figure has him by the throat, pinned against the wall of the alley. You hear a dull ringing sound as the sword fall to the ground.

Thinking fast, you spot a broken chunk of broken bricks and mortar nearby. 

The figure is hissing something to him, low and intense and full of hate. The man grapples at the fingers around his throat, but with no success. 

Hefting the bricks, you run back towards the fight. The figure seems too engrossed in strangling the man to notice you. 

Raising up the bricks above your head, you let the masonry smash onto the figure’s head. 

It screeches again, dropping the man and he falls to the alley floor. It definitely notices you now. 

It turns on you, slamming you. Your back hits the ground, the wind knocked out of you. Pinned down, it’s steely grip on your wrists, your struggling doesn’t even seem to move it. You hear a hiss coming from its mouth under the deep hood of its overcoat, and some primal instinct makes your blood run cold as you stare up at the indiscernible, shadowy place where the face must be. 

But then it rears up, letting go of you. Rolling to the side, you see the man slashing and stabbing at it with calculated strikes. 

With inhuman speed, it scrambles for the entrance of the alley, and is gone, down the street. The man in the suit chases it for a bit, but gives up and swears, leaning against the brick wall of the alley to catch his breath and gently rub at his neck. You watch as the sword in his hand seems to shrink. He adjusts his lapel for some reason. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, making his way towards you. “Let’s move into the light a bit, in case it comes back.” He offers a hand to pull you up. 

On the main street, there’s no sign of the shadowy figure. You take a better look at the man in the waning light. He’s tall, but fluid-looking. A clean-shaven, angular but friendly face with sharp cheekbones. He wears a suit that you immediately recognize as probably bespoke, likely very expensive, and definitely well-tailored. Broad royal blue stripes alternating with a tasteful tan in a tight-woven fabric. This is Old Weft, after all, where every gentleman in the city (and some who live elsewhere) comes to get their suits made. But even walking and working among all that, his stands out somehow. 

And there’s a brooch on his lapel. It’s a small gold sword with the same intricate handguard of the sword he had been holding just a minute ago. 

“I’m Sebastian.” You shake his hand. “Thanks for coming back for me. You should have run, but you saved me, and I appreciate that.” He gives you a smile. 

“Well, you saved me too,” you say. “I think I was about to be another one of those disappearances.” 

“I’ve heard about people going missing, but I hadn’t gotten a chance to stop one until now. I’ve been trying.” He gestures slightly to the sword brooch. “So are you alright?” he asks again, genuine concern on his face. “I didn’t hurt you accidentally, did I? Did it hurt you?” 

“I’m alright, thank you,” you tell him. “You’ve been following it too? Do you know there are more people missing than the newspaper says, right?” 

“I’ve heard rumors, and I’ve been trying to keep track, but I think I’m still missing some,” he says. “I don’t want to tell you what to do, but you really should be more careful walking alone at dusk.” 

“I think I got that message,” you tell him. “But I’m still not giving up.” 

“What do you mean you’re ‘Not giving up’?” 

“My friend went missing last night,” you explain. “The police won’t investigate, so I’m trying to find whatever I can on the disappearances. I decided to retrace her steps.” 

He pulls out a notebook from the inner pocket of his suit. “What’s your friend’s name? Where was she taken?” 

“Violet. I’m not sure. She walks from 5th and Duke to 12th and Grand, but we use a shortcut on 9th.” He writes it down. 

“Thank you,” he tells you. “Where are you headed? I’d feel much better if I could walk you there.” 

“12th and Grand,” you say. As you start to walk with him, you ask “Do you know what’s going on?” 

He’s silent, walking just ahead of you. 

You stop. “Tell me.” 

He hesitates and keeps walking. 

“My friend is gone. I almost got kidnapped. The least you can do is tell me what the hell is going on!”

He stops. Then turns around and walk back to you and looks at you intensely. “You can’t tell anyone. And in exchange, you’ll need to check the list of disappearances I’ve put together to see if I’m missing anyone or if I got something wrong.” 

“Done.” 

He then gently hooks your arm around his, turning you around and walking you in the opposite direction. 

“Where are we going?” you ask. 

“I have a place nearby. Since I’ll tell you what I know, you agreed to look at the list of disappearances I compiled,” he reminds you. “I have all my notes at home.” 

“Right,” you say, concluding that if he risked his life to save you, it would probably be safe to enter his house. 

“And, if you don’t mind… I could make some tea for us,” he says. “I don’t want it to be an interrogation. Hospitality isn’t dead, and you are helping me, after all.” 

“Sure,” you say. “But you haven’t told my anything yet.” 

In a low but clear voice, he starts talking.

“What tried to grab you isn’t human. They’re from a Fae clan called the Fomoiri.” 

Whether it was from shock or confusion, your heart skips a beat. “Fae as in faeries?” 

“Yes. I’m from the Fae clan of the Tuatha Dé Danann. There aren’t many of us in this city, as most of them don’t like humans. And the Fomoiri don’t either, but they’re more… active about it. When people started disappearing, with no trace, and in those numbers, I suspected it might be the Fomoiri. They’ve done things like this before; that’s why I fight them. I just didn’t have any proof connecting them to the disappearances until tonight.” 

“What are you going to do?” you ask. “Once you find them.” 

“If I can gather enough evidence, I’ll bring it to the court of the Tuatha Dé Danann and petition them to take action against the Fomoiri. But it’s going to take a lot of evidence,” his  
voice is suddenly grim. “I’m not necessarily on good terms with them right now.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I ah… I called out the elder council for ignoring relations with humans and letting the Fomoiri do whatever they want. I went off on them. In front of all of them. In a seated assembly. They weren’t happy.” 

“What did they do to you?” you ask. “Is that why you’re living here?” 

“I’ve always wanted to live with humans for a while, so that was my choice. They disinherited me. They removed me from the royal succession.”  
“Wait, ‘royal succession’?” you ask. 

“Crown prince. Former crown prince,” he corrects. “I didn’t want to be their puppet anyway.” 

“Prince?” You thought faeries were going to be the most outlandish thing he told you. The only reason you don’t doubt every word he says is because you knew in your gut that whatever attacked you both was not human. 

“It’s fine,” he says casually. “My brother is next in line now. He’s got a good heart in the right place. He’ll do well.” 

After a long moment of listening to your footsteps on the street and watching the lamplighter make his way down the row of street lights, Sebastian breaks the silence.  
“So tell me about your friend Violet.” 

“We moved into the boarding house at the same time. I work at a tailor shop and she works at a milliner’s shop. When she didn’t come homes last night, we all knew.” You pause, thinking about the claw-like fingers over your mouth, the sharp pull backwards. Had she felt that too? “She’s not the type to just leave. She’s never missed a day at work. She sends money back home so her younger brother can stay in school.” 

“I like her already,” Sebastian says. “I’ve got younger brothers. I hate them sometimes, but I care about them all the time.” 

“I don’t know what I’m going to tell him if…” If no one ever finds her? If she’s dead? If the Fomoiri never give her back? 

“We’ll find her,” Sebastian assures you. “We’ll find out what’s going on. And there will be consequences for the Fomoiri, even if I have to do it myself.” 

He leads you down a few turns into a semi-familiar part of the city. It’s the slightly nicer shop district, where people go on a rare day off from work. Elaborately-painted wooden signs hang above your head, advertising the storefronts of apothecaries, milliners, locksmiths, jewelers and clockmakers, most of which have just closed. You pass a green-grocer where you bought oranges for last Christmas, and a confectionery shop where you went once and Violet convinced you to buy taffy. You had been reluctant, but she had been right. The taffy had been the best part of the day, and you kept a few pieces to remember it later, when the orders in the shop piled up and the master tailors yelled and you came back late and missed dinner. But you would unwrap one of the pieces of taffy and remember the sunny day off and things wouldn’t seem as bad. 

“Here we are,” Sebastian says, walking straight for a door tucked just to the side of a bakery whose lights were still on, the “closed” sign turned outward and someone moving inside, cleaning up for the day. 

“Have you ever been to that bakery?” he asks, turning the key in the door. “They’re wonderful. I got some scones this morning, you should have some.” 

A staircase leads to another door that bears a symbol with swirls doubling back on themselves. As Sebastian unlocks it, he pauses. “Did you hear that?” 

You listen. The murmur of a few stragglers in the street. The muted banging of pans downstairs as the baker stacks them. The slight creak of the stairs as you shift on them nervously. “Hear what?” 

“That… screech,” he says, puzzled. “Never mind, it was probably nothing.” 

The door opens and Sebastian waves a hand, the lamps and chandelier in the apartment lighting all at once. The space is a small but well-kept room with a dining table, couches, a sideboard with patterned dishes, and long thick drapes framing windows that look out over the street. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think. Does magic make you nervous?” 

“No,” you manage. Nervous wasn’t the word. 

“Please, make yourself comfortable!” he calls back. “I’ll put on some water for tea.” 

“You don’t have a cook or a maid?” you ask. 

“No,” he says with a bit of a laugh. 

“Sorry,” you say, your brain catching up. “I just though… you seem like a gentleman. I thought you might… I just, you don’t usually get someone who buys that kind of suit who isn’t…” 

“No, no! I see what you mean. I am technically, but… family matters and all, you know? I prefer to live on my own for now, and I don’t mind cooking.” Sebastian re-appears with a plate of scones and a pot of jam for the dining table, placing them just so on the table. “Please, have a seat. I don’t usually have guests to entertain.” You take a seat and wait for him as he returns to the kitchen, the sound of a tea kettle being filled and a stove being lit. 

“There it is again,” he says. “You must have heard that.” 

Just as confused as before, you listen: a dog barking far in the distance, someone yelling in the street below. The bell on a shop door ringing. But no screech. 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” You’re starting to get concerned. 

“Don’t worry about it, then,” he tells you. 

You try not to.

After a pause, you feel the desperate need to break the silence with something. Anything. 

“Can I ask,” you start cautiously. “Is it because you fight the Fomoiri? Is that why you’re not on good terms with your family? Is that why you… went off on the council?” 

There’s a long pause from the kitchen. 

“Not all of my family. Not the close members. Just… everyone else. It’s not that I fight the Fomoiri, it’s more that I don’t listen when they tell me not to. They can’t have a crown prince who doesn’t kneel to the elders. And I don’t kneel to anyone—human or Fae—who ignores when innocent people are being terrorized.” 

The pause this time is more sober, and broken by Sebastian. 

“So ah… I have a good jasmine tea. Does that sound good to you?” 

By the time he brings out the tea tray, he seems to have cheered up. And it is quite the tea set. Delicate, translucent porcelain makes the matching set of elegant cups, saucers, sugar bowl, creamer and pot. Green and blue patterns of flowers and leaves are accentuated with gold accents. You’re fairly certain the tablecloth was selected to match. Sebastian seems brimming with satisfaction as he carefully pours the tea into both your cups. 

“I got this a while ago, but I haven’t had a reason to use it. I love having guests, but none of my friends want to visit,” he explains as you both take sips of tea. It’s smooth and dark with floral notes, definitely not the kind you’re used to. “It’s bad for their standing in the court. And apparently they don’t care about anything else.” He nudges the plate of scones towards you. “Please, help yourself!”

The scones are fluffy and dense all at once, with dried currants and a hint of orange and spice. 

“Agh!” Sebastian suddenly flinches. “You must have heard that,” he says, looking to you with almost desperate eyes. 

“I didn’t hear anything, Sebastian, I’m sorry,” you tell him. 

“What the hell,” he mutters. “Sorry, it must be me.” 

His mood seems to have gone down again, as he wraps his hands around his teacup gives it a troubled look. 

“What did it sound like?” you ask him. 

“What?” He looks up. 

“The noise you keep hearing.” 

“Oh. Like a screech. Like… when the train breaks too fast coming into the station. Or a rusted chain, but much, much—AH!” 

His teacup clatters back to the saucer as his hands fly to his ears. His face is contorted and his breathing quickens. 

“Sebastian?” 

He looks up, dazed, his hands coming back down, and you notice something. 

Blood. 

“You’re bleeding!” Just a bit, but it drips from his ears. 

He swears. “It must have hexed me! That bastard must have hexed me. Emerson… Emerson!” He runs unsteadily to the other room. 

“Emerson hexed you?” you ask, not sure who or what he’s talking about. 

“No, the Fomoir hexed me. But I need Emerson!” He returns with a hand mirror, the face framed by two bronze oak trees. “Emerson!” 

The mirror gets cloudy for a moment.

“This better be important or I’m smashing this damn thing,” an annoyed voice says. The image of a young man with messy brown hair and an old, wide-brimmed hat appears in the mirror. 

“Emerson! I think I’ve been hexed,” Sebastian says. 

“What makes you so sure?” Emerson asks skeptically. 

“This ringing—screeching in my ears. I ran into a Fomoir, I fought it. I was fine but then the screeching got louder and…” he turns his head to give Emerson a good view of the blood coming from his ears. 

“Idiot,” Emerson mutters. “I’ll be right there!” 

“Thank you,” Sebastian says. “Hey, Emerson—” But the mirror has gone back to showing Sebastian’s reflection, complete with the new stripe of blood down his neck. “Emerson!” 

“How long until he’s here?” you ask. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know where he’s been living. We haven’t talked in a while.” 

“Who is he?” 

“He’s—agh!” his entire body tenses and you can do nothing except wait for it to pass. The ticking of the clock on the mantle seems more sinister the longer Sebastian sits curled up, hands clamped over his ears. Eventually his body relaxes and he leans back in the chair, breathing deep and slow. “The screeching is getting louder,” he says weakly. 

“What can I do?” 

“I don’t know. Hexes aren’t my thing. If anyone knows how to fix it, it’s Emerson.” 

There’s a pounding on the door. You run to answer it, and Emerson rushes in, pushing past you with a large leather bag in his hand. 

“Do you have salt, Sebastian?” he demands. 

Sebastian groans, covering his ears again. “Back wall. Shelf.” 

Faster than you realize was possible, Emerson is at the back wall, pulling a wooden box with a hinged lid off the shelf. “Here,” he shoves it into your arms. “Get him on the table and salt the edges.” 

“What?” you ask, as you maybe didn’t hear the directions quite right. 

He stares straight into your eyes. “Clear off the table. Put Sebastian on the table. Put the salt around Sebastian.” 

You go to clear the table, grabbing the teapot and a cup and saucer set to put it on the sideboard. 

“Ah!” Sebastian grips his head again, doubling over. 

“Just push it all off! Do it now!” Emerson yells. 

You grab the edge of the tablecloth and push it to the far side, cringing as you hear the crash of the majority of the beautiful tea set shattering on the floor. 

Emerson puts his leather bag down on a chair and starts pulling out tins and bottles. 

The blood from Sebastian’s ears has made its way down to his suit jacket, making bright crimson splotches on the wide tan stripes of his suit. He stands up slowly, dazed. He grips the edge of the table with his bloody hands, but suddenly pitches to the side and you catch him, his weight unsteady. You help him on to the table, which is a lighter-colored wood than you would have expected. Using the salt box, you draw a line around the edge of the table. 

Emerson reaches into his bag again and takes out a canteen. “Catch!” 

Your hands close around the canteen, the liquid sloshing inside it. “Catch again!” Slinging the canteen’s strap over your arm, you manage to catch the tin Emerson throws at you. “Salt in the canteen, and shake it until it dissolves.” The tin has coarse black crystals that you work to get through the opening of the canteen. 

“Sebastian! Where’s your burner?” Emerson asks. Getting no reply, he yells “Sebastian!” 

Sebastian’s breathing has gotten deeper and more rapid, his eyes squeezed shut as he lies face-up on the table. Blood has started slowly pooling beneath his head, and tiny spots of red have appeared at the corners of his eyes. 

“I don’t think he can hear you,” you tell Emerson. 

Emerson looks up, glancing around the room. His eyes land on something behind you. “Give me that,” he says, pointing. You turn around and there, on the sideboard, is the tea cup and saucer set you managed to save from the floor. You rush it over to him and he sets the saucer on the table by Sebastian’s head. 

Blood now slides down the sides of Sebastian’s face from his tightly-closed eyes. 

Emerson walks around the table, hand hovering over the line of salt, muttering something under his breath. When he reaches full circle, he raises his hand. “As above…” he lowers his hand to point to the floor. “So below.” You see a slight shine in the air encasing the area around Sebastian, as if the ring of salt was just one part of a bubble. “Now that we’ve sealed it in, let’s get this thing out.” 

Shaking the canteen to dissolve the salt, you watch Emerson toss dried clover flowers, a coarse dried herb, a pressed leaf or some kind, and a chunk of resin onto the saucer and strike a match, dropping it into the pile. Flames flare as the herbs catch fire and the resin melts, the dried stems and leaves and flowers acting as wicks. Emerson waves his hands to waft the smoke over Sebastian.

“Pour the water over him,” Emerson tells you. The instructions keep getting stranger, but Sebastian is starting to look even paler then before, so you open the canteen and splash the transparent black water over him. 

A dark smoke-like energy starts rising from Sebastian’s body, condensing above him into something more solid, somehow sinister and furious. You back away from the table. It tries to lash out, but is stopped by the bubble, constantly seeking a crack in the ring. 

Emerson stares at it with deadly focus. “Open a window.” 

You rush to the window, undoing the latch and flinging open the sash. 

Without breaking his glare, he reaches down and grabs a handful of dried pine needles and tosses them on the flames. They crackle and curl as they burn, adding more smoke to the bubble. 

“From this man you’re now unhitched,” he chants. “I return you to your sender,” he swipes at the salt circle, breaking the bubble “…bitch.” 

The dark energy screeches past you and is sucked out the window into the night. 

Sebastian groans, rolling onto his side and curling up slightly on the table. His face and neck are covered in blood, but the bleeding seems to have stopped. 

“Where’s that tea pot?” Emerson asks. “Did you smash it?” 

“It survived,” you say, going to the side board to retrieve it. “No thanks to you.” The tea inside is still warm. 

“Don’t sass me,” he says with a smile. “I saved my brother’s sorry ass, didn’t I?” 

“Wait, you’re brothers?” 

Emerson opens the top of the tea pot, tossing in several sage leaves and some chamomile from his tins. “Unfortunately, yes. There’s another one, too, by the way. I should get him here. Whatever’s going on, he should know about it. Wait for that to brew a bit, then try to get him to drink it.” 

“Sebastian said you hadn’t talked in years,” you tell him. “But you still came to help him.” 

“Brothers are just like that sometimes,” he says, lighting a thick bundle of sage. He walks around the room slowly, waving it gently to fill the room with scented smoke. “Were you there when he got hexed?” 

“Yes. My friend went missing last night, over in Old Weft. The police think she eloped with someone, but I know her. She wouldn’t do that. I think she got taken by whatever’s been abducting people in the neighborhood. So I went to re-trace her steps, to see what I could find. The other… thing—”

“Fomoir?” Emerson corrects. 

“The Fomoir grabbed me, but Sebastian saw it happen and rescued me. He fought it off.” 

“Ever the gentleman, I suppose,” Emerson says, returning to the table to extinguish the sage bundle on the saucer he had burned herbs on. “I’m going to contact Remington. We need to figure out what’s going on. Where’s that mirror?”

As Emerson takes the mirror to the back room, you pour the herb-infused tea into the last surviving teacup. 

“Sebastian?” You touch his shoulder. 

“Mmmm?” he mumbles, barely awake. 

“Emerson said you should drink this.” Sebastian curls up tighter on the table. “Please?” 

He pushes himself up on his elbow and takes the cup, slowly taking small sips. 

“How are you feeling?” you ask. 

“Feels like I have a massive hangover, but I didn’t even have a good time.” 

Emerson returns from the back room. “Remington’s on his way. We can talk about what to do when he gets here.” 

“Did you ruin my tea set?” Sebastian asks weakly, disbelief in his voice as he stares at the pile of broken china and crumpled tablecloth on the floor. Spilled cream, scattered sugar, smashed scones and lots of sharp pieces of ceramic, bearing bits of the intricate design he loved. 

“Technically, I didn’t,” Emerson says. 

“He told me to push it off,” you explain. 

“I believe you,” he tells you. “I believe he’d tell you to do that. It’s okay.” He sits up more and notices something. “Oh for—now there are bloodstains on the table too!” 

“Listen to you,” Emerson chides. “You almost died and you’re upset about the table? That’s why you had it made in birch, right?” Emerson asks. “Purging curses and spirits? You were pretty proud of yourself for being clever and hiding a magical tool in plain sight, but it’s only a magical tool if you actually use it in magic.” 

Sebastian sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the table. You help steady him as he carefully gets off. He leans against you as his feet touch the floor and he steadies himself. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I think I’m going to go clean up.” He makes his way to the back room, shrugging off his bloody suit jacket with a defeated sigh. 

“He’ll get over it,” Emerson says, seeing your expression. “We’ve been through worse. Just not usually Fomoiri hexes.” 

“Does the other brother fight Fomoiri too?” you ask. 

“None of us technically fight Fomoiri,” Emerson says. “We tend to get along fine, but then again, we tend to leave each other alone.” He smiles ruefully. “Maybe Sebastian and I could learn from that.” 

You pick through the wreckage on the floor, hoping to find a saucer or a sugar bowl lid that remains unbroken, but it seems none of them are still in one piece. The saucer Emerson used to burn herbs has cracked glaze and the resin remnants stain and stick to it tightly. 

Sebastian appears again, missing the suit jacket, his white shirt partially unbuttoned and showing bright red stains. His face is clear of blood, and he cleans the last smears of blood off the side of his neck with a damp cloth. 

“I need gin,” he declares blankly. 

Emerson rolls his eyes and sighs noisily. “I see you haven’t changed that little habit of yours.” 

“Can you piss off for once?” Sebastian’s voice is suddenly sharper. “I’ve had a hell of a day.” 

“I did ‘piss off’, as you might recall, but then you needed me to save your life. Don’t make me regret it.” 

There’s a knock on the door. 

“Thank fuck,” you hear Sebastian mutter. 

Emerson answers it, immediately hugging the young man with wild dark hair on the other side. 

“Glad you could make it,” Emerson says. 

“Of course,” Remington says, walking in. Catching sight of the state of the apartment, he stops dead. His eyes widen. “What the hell happened? Sebastian, are you alright?” 

“He is now,” Emerson says. “But we’ve got bigger problems. He fought with a Fomoir and it hexed him. Knowing them, we don’t have much time until they come back and try to finish the job.” 

“We should go to my place,” Remington says. “It’s safer there.” 

"Let me just get my notes," Sebastian says. 

***

Remington’s “place” is a huge house in the nicer part of town. Three stories. Small but tasteful front yard. Entrance hall with gilded wallpaper that all three of the brothers casually stroll through while you’re left taking in the dark wooden staircase and beautiful tile work on the floor that forms patterns of plants and animals. 

A small tan dog, one ear flopped over, heads toward you with sharp barking. 

“Henry,” Remington tells the dog. “It’s okay. That’s a friend.” 

You kneel cautiously and hold out a hand. Henry sniffs you then looks up at you and pushes his face into your hand. You scratch his ears obligingly. 

“Come on,” Sebastian says, “You can pet Henry later.” You stand up to follow the brothers into a library. 

And it’s one hell of a library. 

Built-in book cases floor to ceiling, filled with books, their spines all different colors, from reds and tans to greens and blues and blacks. A moving ladder on a brass rail track is there to help if someone wanted a book on the upper shelves. A few arm chairs, a couch, and a desk help to make the large room feel cozier. 

Remington pushes on a section of the book cases on the far wall and it shifts in, then swings inward to reveal a hidden room. 

Inside, maps are pinned to the walls, with dots and symbols in different colors, some numbered. Lists with names and dates and notes are there as well. The way the streets intersect on one of the maps… you suddenly realize they’re maps of the city. 

“Whatever happens,” Remington says, “Everyone needs to be on the same page. I know we’ve all been trying to look into this discreetly, but now we have to figure out what’s going on.” 

“We’ll go first,” Sebastian says, glancing at you, and pulling out the notebook where he keeps his list of the disappeared.  
[Go to Chapter 5: The Underground]


	3. The Lost Boy

You passed the pub on the corner every day, but had never actually gone in. “The Black Cat” reads the sign hanging out over the road, with a cat in a tailcoat and top hat painted underneath. 

Opening the door, the bell rings and you are engulfed in the cozy but noisy atmosphere. The smells of stale beer and fresh meat pies fill the lamplit air. Making your way to the bar, you find a place to push forward and try to get the attention of the bartender. 

“One minute!” he tells you, trying to keep up with the rest of the people across the polished bar top. He looks a little overwhelmed, and his messy hair probably should have been cut three months ago, or at least had a comb run through it this morning. He fills pints, wipes off the bar, and notes orders as you wait. 

“Curcio!” A bearded man at the other end hollers, waving, and the bartender looks up. 

“I’ll be right with you!” he tells him, then finally turns to you. “What can I get you?” He flips his towel over his shoulder, leaning forward slightly across the bar so he can heard you better over the din of conversation and dishes. 

“My friend went missing last night. She always walks past here on her way home from work. I was wondering if anyone had seen her.” 

“Your friend is missing?” he asks, to clarify. “You don’t think the snatchers got her, do you?” 

“She wouldn’t leave so suddenly,” you tell him. “I know her. I don’t want to think it, but…”

The bartender’s face is sympathetic. The police may not acknowledge all the disappearances, but the everyday people in Old Weft definitely did. “I’ll ask around,” he tells you. “What does she look like?” 

“Her name’s Violet. She works at the milliner’s on 5th. She’s my age. She’s got dark hair and she was wearing a blue dress,” you tell him. He listens intently and nods, as he jots it down on his notepad, brow furrowed slightly in concentration. 

“Hey, Curcio!” The man at the end calls again. 

“I’ll be right with you!” he repeats. Turning back to you, he says “I’ll see if anyone saw her last night.” 

“Thank you,” you tell him. 

“Oh, hang on,” he says, flipping to another page in his notebook, and writing something down. He rips out the page and hands it to you. “This guy’s a friend of mine. He’s been asking about the disappearances for a while now. I told him if I heard something, I’d send it his way. He might know more about what’s been going on.” 

“Daniel!” the man on the end bellows. 

“Sorry, I gotta go. I’ll let you know if anyone’s see her,” Curcio tells you before rushing to the end of the bar. “Yeah, okay, okay! What can I get you?”

You make your way out of the warm, thick air of the pub into the quickly cooling early evening air outside. Reading the location on the note, you start walking. 

***

The black lines on the paper are quickly getting hard to decipher as your sweaty hands begin to smudge the ink and the light slips from the sky. A lamplighter is making his way down the row of street lamps, but hasn’t reached where you are yet. 

"14th and Calgary St." you read for the twelfth time. "On the canal." Under the words is a symbol or a pattern that swirls and doubles back on itself, almost like a flourish under a signature, but taller than it is wide. You walk along Calgary, the numbers of the intersecting streets shrinking, but you can only understand the first part of the directions. There was the canal, the water faintly lapping at the stone embankments. But all the houses and shops on Calgary look out over it. And the symbol has no meaning that you can decipher. 

And then you see it: among the occasional rowboats, there is a small houseboat on the canal, with a neat plank making a bridge to the street and a dim light glowing from its windows. 

Surely that’s not what he meant. But as you approach, you make out a pattern on the door, slightly weathered, but still visible in back paint. The pattern matches the note in your hand. 

Stepping onto the plank, you’re painfully aware of each sound your boots make on the wooden beams, each footstep seeming larger in the quiet between the embankments. "Barrett" reads a wooden sign just above the doorway. Raising a hand to the door, you knock. 

You hear footsteps coming towards the door and your heart nearly stops, not knowing who might open it. 

The door swings open to reveal a young man with an open suit vest over a loose, un-done shirt and striped trousers, topped off with unkempt brown hair and a somewhat battered-looking wide-brim hat. 

“What can I do for you this evening?” he asks, politely but with a hint of annoyance. 

“I, ah… a man named Curcio at the Black Cat sent me to ask you about… well…” 

His demeanor changes as he gives you a warm smile and steps back from the door. “Ah, good old Curcio. Come in, come in. It’s not much of a home, but I’ll welcome you nevertheless.” 

Stepping into the boat, the air smells faintly of something sweet and spicy; some kind of incense you have never encountered before. The only light comes from an oil lamp sitting next to an oversized armchair with a book lying open, face-down on the arm. 

“Have a seat, please…” he said, picking up a wooden briefcase and a stack of papers from a chair by a small desk. You take a seat on the chair as he looks around for a place to put the wooden case and papers, finally setting them on top of another stack of papers on a book shelf. “I’m Emerson.” He offers his hand and you shake it. 

He turns the lamp up and the glow illuminates more of the interior. Flowers (some dried and some fresh) sit in jars and bottles. Books (some lying open, some closed, some stacked, some on their own) lie on shelves and the small desk. A large cabinet with dozens of small drawers sits against the back wall, each drawer labeled with a word, symbols, and a rough sketch of a plant. The walls are covered in all sorts of things, some in frames and some tacked onto the wall or tucked behind others: lithograph prints, small oil paintings, post cards of cathedrals, and intricate black-ink drawings of architecture and ships. It’s small and crowded, but somehow intensely cozy. 

“I thought I might smoke. Do you mind?” he asks. You shake your head. He opens a glass jar of what looks like a mix of different herbs and places a pinch in a wooden pipe.  
Holding the pipe in his mouth, his pale hands tap open a box of matches, strike one with a fluid motion, and hold it to the bowl of the pipe. Shaking out the match, he sits back in the armchair. 

You catch sight of a dark greenish bottle sitting on top of a small stack of papers. In the dim lighting you can just make out the words on the label: "Absinthe Verte."

“Isn’t that… illegal?” 

He follows your eyes. “It’s not illegal if they don’t know,” he says with a half-smile. He takes a long draw on his pipe and exhales, smoke swirling and giving the air in the boat cabin a stronger smell of the spicy sweetness you noticed earlier. “La fée verte. The green fairy…” he lets out a sound that’s just barely a laugh, the smile showing his row of white teeth. “I always thought that was funny. You don’t need wormwood to see us. We’re right here.” He spreads his arms and grins at you. “But I suppose we’re not here if they don’t know.” 

“I’m sorry?” you ask, trying to decipher what he just said. 

“Oh, Curcio didn’t tell you?” he says casually. “I’m Fae.” 

Seeing your confused look, he elaborates. “Faerie. Fair Folk. Aos Sí. Tuatha Dé Danann.” He waves the hand that isn’t holding the pipe, saying “Whatever people choose to call us.” 

Your blood runs cold. Legends of mystical people living in hills and cursing farmers aren’t real. They wouldn’t live in the city. And they certainly wouldn’t be lounging in an armchair chatting with you about illegal liquor. But at the same time, your gut tells you there’s something slightly different about Emerson. 

“So, if you’re a… Fair Folk,” you say choosing your words carefully, just in case. “What are you doing here?” 

“We all get bored of our surroundings eventually. Especially when you’re trapped in the palace and people make you say things you don’t believe and do things you don’t want to do.” 

“Palace?” 

“Nobility isn’t all you think it is,” he says. “You don’t need marble floors to be happy, and when you’re part of the royal family, you don’t exactly belong to yourself.” 

Emerson’s claim to be noble on top of a faerie is starting to make you suspicious, but you’re too intrigued, so you decide to play along. “So you just… left?” you ask. 

“I did,” he says. “And I don’t regret it. Besides, I always think we should be keeping an eye on humans. Living nearby. Some of us don’t want anything to do with you because of these cities and all those inventions and all this… industry. They feel threatened. But they’re fools. We’ve always coexisted with you in some way, and separating ourselves from you is just burying our heads in the sand. They’re afraid of change, but it’s coming for them whether they realize it or not. Personally, I’d rather change with you than break my hands trying to cling to the past.” He takes another draw on the pipe. “Enough about that. What brings you here on this fine evening?”  
“Have you heard of the disappearances in the Old Weft district?” you ask. 

“I have,” he says, taking the pipe out of his mouth and using it to point to the desk behind you. Yesterday’s newspaper is opened to an article titled TENTH DISAPPEARANCE STRIKES FEAR IN OLD WEFT: VICTIM LEAVES NO TRACE. “I’ve been following it since the first disappearance.” 

“There are more people missing than that,” you start explaining. “I don’t know how many exactly, but a lot. We’re all terrified and no one knows anything. The police say they must have just ran away so they didn’t have to pay debts, or they eloped with someone, or they got drunk and fell into the river. But there are far too many people for that. And my friend, Violet, she’s not the type to do that. No at all. She took a job at a shop to support her little brother. She wouldn’t leave him to fend for himself.” The young man sitting opposite you has a look of cool concentration, as is carefully considering something. “Curcio told me you might know something about what’s been going on.” 

He puts down his pipe carefully. “I’m not the only one who’s not human in this city. And we’re not the only ones who interact with humans. I’ve been suspecting for some time that the missing people may have something to do with the Fomoiri.” 

“Who?” 

“The Tuatha Dé Danann are one tribe of Fae, the Fomoiri are another. We’re two sides of a coin. We’re life and growth. They’re death and decay. You need both in the world for things to work. We’re not exactly enemies: my brothers and I are descendants of Lug, who was half Fomoiri. But they sometimes get too… greedy. Hungry. You need fungus in the forest to break down dead trees, but when fungus starts growing on a living tree…” He looks up and holds your gaze. “You have to get rid of the fungus.” 

“I don’t know if I understand,” you say. 

“I’ve had a feeling that some of the Fomoiri are living in this city, and have been taking humans. I don’t know where, or for what, but they’re getting bolder. And if there are more disappearances than what’s being reported, it might be something more sinister than I thought. Where did you say your friend was taken?” 

“Old Weft district, on her way home from the shop, around dusk yesterday.” 

“Do you think you could show me where she would have walked?” he asks. “I have a theory and I’d like to see if I’m right.” 

Stepping out onto the street again, it’s full night. The lamps provide soft light for only the street, leaving the corners and alleys in inky darkness. Emerson takes a silver-handled walking cane with him, locking the door of the boat behind him. 

“Tell me more about these unreported disappearances,” he says, strolling beside you down the darkened cobblestone streets. “How often are people going missing?” 

“When it started it was maybe one or two a week. That was a few months ago. There were at least five last week, but there may be more. Violet was the fourth to go missing this week. The second from our building.” 

“And it’s all kinds of people?” he asks. 

“Yes. Men, women, shop girls, apprentices, kids out late playing in the street before they get called home for supper. Probably drunk men and street-walking women, too, but no one reports those because the police wouldn’t care. Whoever’s taking them doesn’t seem to have a preference.” Emerson listens attentively. You turn the corner on the way back towards Old Weft. 

“All of them at dusk?” Emerson asks. 

“As far as we can tell. I’m not sure because no one sees them go. But it’s when they’re coming home after work, or going to the pub at night, or playing in the street.” You can’t help but notice how the street lamps don’t cast any light into the alleys, making it impossible to see if anything is hiding in them. 

“The in-between time is when Fomoiri are quite active.” Emerson strides along, unbothered by the shadows that seem to be getting more sentient the longer you look at them. “Of course, so are we. Rather inconvenient if you want to do business in a human city, though. I hate having to get up before three.” Emerson’s features momentarily scrunch up, emphasizing his distaste. 

“We’re getting close,” you tell him. “There’s the shop where she works. She didn’t come home last night and I checked; no one at the shop has seen her either.”

“Oh!” Emerson says. “I think I’ve been there. Is she the girl behind the counter? With the dark hair?” 

“Yes!” you say, getting a jolt from knowing that people might remember her. If people remember her, they would recognize her if they saw her. They would notice if she was gone. They would ask where she went. Even if she never came back, she couldn’t be completely forgotten and lost and swallowed up into the dark parts of the city. “This way.” You lead him across the street. “She takes this exact route. If I get out early some days, I meet her here and we walk back together.”

Emerson suddenly swerves into an alley and stops, looking around intently. 

“What is it?” you ask. 

“No,” he says. “Not here.” He keeps walking the way you had been going. “Have you ever seen anything when you’re walking home?” 

“Like what?” you ask. 

“Like someone who seems a little different? Maybe not quite human? Maybe acting strangely?” 

“Like you?” you ask. 

“I suppose so,” he smiles. “But darker. More proud. The Fomoiri don’t like to talk to humans. They think they’re better than you.” 

“Do you?” you ask. 

“No,” says Emerson. “I don’t speak for all the Tuatha Dé Danaan, but we tend to not be as… condescending. Don’t be mistaken, though. We’re petty and proud. Just never say that to our faces.” He gives you a playful sideways look. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you tell him. “This turn here,” you say, taking a left. 

As you pass another alley, Emerson slows down to peer into it, then stops and heads down it. You cautiously follow. 

“Ah-ha! I thought so,” Emerson sounds pleased with himself. In the murky half-shadows, he walks towards a door set into a building, a few stone steps leading down to it. The wood is weathered and the sturdy hardware rusted. The door looks so inconsequential you had never noticed it in all the times you passed by it. 

He takes one of his necklaces out of the tangle on his neck and holds up a blank key with a milky white gem set into the handle. He slides it into the lock, turns, and a heavy click comes from the door. Giving you a devilish grin, the removes the key and swings the door inward. 

Maybe Emerson really is of the Fae. 

“I think it’s a sewer access tunnel,” he says. The vague smell coming from it would certainly agree with that assessment. “The Fomoiri like caves and underground tunnels. They might be using these to take their victims.” 

“Victims?” you ask. Does Emerson know more about what they do with the people they abduct than he told you? 

“The people they take.” He turns to you, his voice calming. “There’s a good chance your friend is still alive. And this tunnel might lead us to where she is.” 

“I didn’t bring a lamp,” you tell him, staring into the complete darkness of the tunnel beyond the door. 

“Hm…” Emerson says. “I wish I brought something to write with. You wouldn’t happen to have charcoal, would you? Or a pencil?” 

“No, but…” You reach into your pocket and your fingers land on what you were hoping was there. “I have chalk from work.” 

“Perfect!” Emerson takes the chalk in his slim fingers and draws something on the inside of the doorway, scratching against the brick. The design involves triangles, lines and a peculiar open circle. The air in front of it begins to glow blue, and wisps of light solidify into a loose sphere. 

“What is that?” 

“It’s a willow-the-wisp,” he tells you. “Good evening,” Emerson addresses the light. “Would you be so kind as to joins us? We would greatly appreciate your light.” It begins to drift down the narrow tunnel in front of you, illuminating the endless rows of bricks stretching into darkness. 

“So are you a tailor?” he asks, as casually as if you were strolling in the park on a Sunday afternoon and not following a glowing creature into the sewers. “That’s the only job I can think of where you would have chalk.” 

“Not a master tailor, but I help with the drafting,” you tell him as you follow. “They don’t call this part of the city Old Weft for nothing.” 

“Very true,” he says. “I wonder if you’ve ever made a suit for my brother. He’s developed a bit of a taste for bespoke suits lately.” 

“You have a brother? What’s he like?” you ask. 

“Oh, he’s tall and very friendly,” Emerson starts out casually, quickly adding on “and he has a taste in fabrics for his garments that sometimes stretch the limits of what’s good taste.” 

“We’ve had a few customers like that,” you tell Emerson. 

“I was worried about him blending in among humans," he tells you, "but it seems he’s doing fine.” 

You’re slowly becoming aware of how the entrance to the tunnel is getting farther away with every slightly-echoing step. How the darkness starts to pen you in on both sides, and the walls are so close you have to walk slightly behind Emerson. “Do you do this often?” you ask Emerson. “You don’t seem bothered by this very much.” 

“I do not,” he tells you. “But life’s an adventure. At least, that’s what I personally choose to make it. Your life isn’t for someone else to determine. It’s yours, so make it whatever you want.” 

“Don’t you run into trouble living like that?” you ask him. 

“I found that the fear of trouble was more trouble than the trouble itself.” He swings his cane a bit as he walks, the tip clicking on the floor. “Besides,” he looks back at you in the uneven blue light. “I’m pretty good at slipping out of trouble. Just one of my many talents.” 

A sudden scratching noise far down the tunnel catches your attention. “What was that?” 

Emerson has stopped walking. The willow-the-wisp has stopped as well. He peers into the darkness ahead. “I’m not sure. Could just be a rat.” His body has a tension that says he doesn’t quite believe his own words. The sound of metal sliding against metal comes from in front of you, and the handle of the cane has slid up to reveal a sword hidden inside. 

Suddenly, a tall, hooded figure lunges into the light towards you. Emerson swings the sword at it, but it isn’t held off for long. It lunges again, and Emerson is caught off guard. A swipe of a long knife from the figure and Emerson cries out, the sound echoing down the tunnel with no one but you to hear it. 

The figure moves to slash at him again, but Emerson moves forward sloppily, managing to strike metal-on-metal and keep it at bay. He dives forward to strike at its arm.

The creature screeches as it steps back, making a sound like rusted nails on slate. 

You both flinch to cover your ears, and Emerson drops the sword. 

The figure rushes forward and steps on the sword, slamming Emerson against the wall. 

Thinking fast, you muster all your strength and kick it as hard as you can in the knee. It stumbles slightly, taking a few steps back. It’s just enough for Emerson to slip free and for you to dive to grab the sword on the floor. 

You swing it wildly at the figure, the width of the tunnel small enough for you to keep it at bay and prevent it from getting past you to Emerson. 

“I need you to buy me some time!” Emerson says. From a quick look behind you, you can see he’s on the floor, blood on his shirt but your chalk in his hand again. 

The figure launches itself at you, and you do your best to block its strike and aim for open places in its defense. Metal hits metal as you slowly drive it backwards down the hall. The extra length of the sword gives you an advantage, but your opponent seems to move faster than you expected, not leaving you any time to think. 

“Okay, get back here!” Emerson yells. You turn and run towards him, the figure close behind you. 

Emerson kneels behind another intricate set of symbols, this time including a line that goes all the way across the width of the tunnel. 

You jump over the line and he draws a symbol to complete the pattern. 

A wave of light travels from the line down the tunnel towards the figure and into the darkness, carrying it away with it. 

Emerson sighs and leans against the wall of the tunnel. “It’ll come back, but we have some time.” He shifts and tenses, hissing “Fuck,” under his breath. 

“How bad is it?” you ask, kneeling next to him. 

“Can’t say I’ve had worse,” he says, holding a hand to his chest, near the bottom of his ribcage where the blood seems to be coming from. “But I’ll live.” In the bluish light, you make out dark stains on his shirt. You take your kerchief and press it to his wound, his bloody hand fumbling over yours as he takes over holding it on. “That was a Fomoir, by the way,” he tells you. “I wasn’t sure before. I am now.” 

“Can you walk?” you ask. 

He nods, starting to push himself up using the wall. “We need to get to Remington’s.” 

“Where is that? Is he a doctor?” 

“Uptown,” Emerson says, taking a few steps towards the exit. It’s shaky, even as he leans against the damp bricks. His head bows down. “I might need some help to get there.” 

“Of course.” Retrieving his cane and hooking it into your folded elbow, you pull the arm of his good side over your shoulders. He leans against you, able to walk on his own, but needing something to keep him steady. Your arm around him is carefully placed to not go near where his own hand holds the cloth to the deep cut. 

The walk out of the tunnel seems far longer than the way in. Emerson’s heavy breathing as he focuses on taking the next step does little to distract you from worries. Like just how far this Remington’s house might be. Just how soon the Fomoir might return. Just how long Emerson could hang in there. The willow-the-wisp, with its slowly-shifting ribbons of blue light, like thick, luminous smoke, gives you something to look at until you reach the entrance to the tunnel. 

By the time you step back into the alley, Emerson is putting more of his weight on you. He carefully lets you go for a moment, leaning against the wall. Looking to the willow-the-wisp, he nods. “Thank you.” He swipes at the chalk drawing, blurring the lines. The willow-the-whisp fades. He takes a deep breath, gathering himself. The pain is clearly starting to distract him. 

“Okay,” he says, reaching out to you. His arm goes over your shoulder again, your arm around his side. “Merchant Street,” he tells you, taking his first step. “I’ll guide you.”

The few people you pass as you make your way down the streets don’t stare too much. They must think Emerson is drunk. They must not see the blood. But you don’t pass many people as you walk. The fear of the snatchers is real in Old Weft. And now you know it’s not just a new urban ghost story. 

Emerson directs you in a way you’ve never been before. In a few blocks, you don’t recognize the streets and shops and houses. He has to stop, leaning against a lamppost for a moment, catching his breath. He looks down at the cut. Your kerchief is completely soaked in blood. The front of his shirt isn’t much better. He sighs, gently throwing his head back against the lamppost to stare at the sky. 

“How much further?” you ask. 

“Not far,” he says. He doesn’t move from where he is, taking more time to gather himself. 

“That’s one thing that I don’t like,” he tells you. “The stars. You can’t see them in the city.” He shifts, then inhales quickly, and settles back to how he had been, face tilted up catching the soft light of the street lamp. “You can see a few on good nights, but back at the palace, you can see them all.” His eyes are closed, recalling somewhere you’ve never been. “Every one of them. There’s something pure about stars. They don’t shine because someone’s paying them to, or a law tells them to. They don’t cost anything. They don’t care if you like them or not. I admire that.” 

He opens his eyes and leans forward, raising his arm for you to put it over your shoulder again. 

Walking again, as you try to steady him against you, he says “I’d like to know what they’re thinking.” 

“Who?” 

“The stars,” he replies. 

“They aren’t alive, are they?” you ask. 

“Who says?” he asks. “Maybe they are. If that’s true, I want to be a star.” 

“How would you do even do that?” you ask, steadying him as he stumbles on the edge of a cobblestone. 

“I don’t know,” he says, his words getting lazy. “But if there’s a way…” your hand on his side slips in the warm blood, bumping into his hand that covers the wound. He cries out in pain, then quickly stifles it. 

“Sorry,” you say. “I’m so sorry, I—” 

“If there’s a way,” he interrupts you, through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna find it.” 

The conversation dies down again and you start needing to put more effort into keeping him upright. For someone so delicate-looking in frame, he’s getting heavier the longer you have to support him. 

Looking up, you suddenly realize the houses are grand, elaborate, and nothing you could ever afford. Intricate details, deep colors on the trim, rosebushes in the strips of front yard, stained glass glowing slightly from the light inside. Is this where Remington lives? Who is this Remington? 

Emerson’s breathing is getting slightly ragged, his head hanging lower. “Here,” he says, nodding feebly to a three-story mansion. It’s a spectacular place: tall windows, a row of alcoves on the top floor, green stained glass windows on the first floor, the well-kept front yard having two trees with small red fruits flanking the walkway. 

Despite Emerson clearly pointing to it, something feels wrong about helping a bleeding bohemian Fae across the walkway and to the doorstep of someone who probably has more money than you could dream of making in your entire life. What if they called the police? You couldn’t get away very fast with Emerson, and you wouldn’t leave him behind. How would you explain it if they got you? 

Emerson lets go of you at the elaborately carved door and collapses against it, banging his fist on it, shouting “Remington!” 

Then you notice the same pattern carved into the door of the mansion that you saw painted on the door of his houseboat. That same swirling, doubling-back symbol. 

“REMINGTON!” he keeps slamming irregularly on the door. Even if the owner didn’t call the police on you, the neighbors might. 

Sharp, furious barking comes from inside, whatever makes it getting closer to the door. 

“Shut UP you stupid mutt!” Emerson props himself on the door frame, his other hand on his bleeding side. “Remington!” 

Footsteps approach the door from the other side as a muffled voice says “Henry, shush!” 

The door opens and a young man with wild dark hair and a well-cut black suit doesn’t have enough time to react before Emerson pushes past him and stumbles into the hall, saying “If you don’t shut that thing up, I swear I’ll do it myself.” 

“Emerson! Are you bleeding?” 

You step quickly into the hall, the man shutting the door behind you. A small, tan, and definitely not purebred dog with one ear up and one ear down yaps angrily at Emerson, dancing around everyone’s legs, its nails clacking on the intricate tile floor. “Henry! Away,” the one with dark hair tells the dog sternly, pointing, and Henry reluctantly stops barking and slinks down the hall. 

Emerson leans back against the gold-embossed wallpaper, clutching his side. He looks at you, then gestures vaguely with a bloody hand to the one who’s house you just barged into unannounced at night. “This is my brother Remington,” he drawls casually. 

“Nice you meet you,” Remington shakes your hand, then quickly turns his attention to Emerson. “What happened? Why haven’t I heard from you in a month? Why are you bleeding?”

“Fomoir,” Emerson says, eyes closed and hand still on his side. “The kidnappings in Old Weft, it’s them. They’re using the sewer tunnels.” 

“Did it poison you?” Remington asks. 

Emerson shakes his head. “Don’t think so.” 

“Can you help me get him to the parlor?” Remington asks you. 

With one of you on either side, you manage to get Emerson into the next room and onto a chaise-lounge. Remington doesn’t even notice the blood dripping on the expensive patterned carpets and plush couch. Either that or he doesn’t care. Emerson lays still, face up with his shirt sticking to his body in places from the blood. 

Remington brings you a cloth and a bowl of water. “See if you can get it clean. I’ll be right back, I have to find something,” he tells you. 

Alone with Emerson in the dim lamplight, his motionless form sends a jolt of panic through you. “Emerson?” you ask the figure on the couch. 

“Hmm?” The noise is barely audible, but he’s alive. His eyes are still closed. 

“I need to get at your wound.” 

He nods, but doesn’t move to help you. You cautiously undo the few fastened buttons of his shirt and open it, exposing the red slice in his pale skin. With the wet cloth, you start to clear the blood gently, but more still flows slowly from the source. 

“Found it,” Remington says, strolling back in and holding a small red bottle with a texture that swirls around it to the top. Removing the cork, he leans over Emerson. “You’ll need to hold him down.” 

Kneeling next to the couch and holding Emerson’s shoulders, you watch Remington tilt the bottle and hold it carefully over the wound. 

The first drop hits, and Emerson’s limp body immediately tenses, a sharp hiss of an inhale coming his lips. More drops follow, Emerson jerking his body around, writhing with each hit of whatever the liquid is. 

“I said hold him down!” Remington tells you. 

You lean over Emerson and try to put more of your weight on him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

Remington drips more from the bottle onto the cut and you struggle to keep Emerson still as he thrashes. You hear his deep, irregular breathing and feel the tension in his body all the more. 

“Argh, fuck!” Emerson shouts at the ceiling. 

“It’s over, it’s over,” Remington says, stepping back and corking the bottle. “It’s okay, I think that’s enough. You’ll be fine.” You let go of Emerson. 

“Still stings like a bitch,” Emerson says, breathing fast and deep. The cut is now an irregularly-red line, fresh skin gleaming in the warm glow of the parlor. 

“Yeah, well don’t let a Fomoir cut you up next time,” Remington says. 

“Don’t lecture me. I’m still in pain,” Emerson groans. 

“Sorry.” Remington’s voice is softer. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the Fomoiri in the city too. If they know we’re on to them, we won’t have much time. We need to get Sebastian here. They might go after him too, and he said he’s been keeping track of the disappearances.” 

“Sebastian?” you ask. 

“The third brother,” Emerson says. “The one with questionable taste in suits.” 

“How many of you are there?” you ask. 

“Just three,” Remington and Emerson say at the same time. 

“I should have known he’d be trying to solve this,” Emerson says, carefully pushing himself up to lean on the slanted arm of the chaise longue. “That’s so like him. He just can’t keep his nose out of something that smells like shit. If we’re going to be taking on all the Fomoiri in the city, we should try to figure out everything that’s been going on.” 

There’s a slight pause. Remington starts laughing. “What he hell have we gotten ourselves into?” 

Emerson smiles. “Haven’t heard you say that in a while. I kinda missed it.” 

***

When Sebastian—the third brother who does indeed have a very well-tailored striped suit—arrives, you all gather in a small room off of the library in Remington’s house. Lists of names and dates, and maps of the city marked with different colors for different incidents are pinned to the walls. 

“Alright, let’s make sure everyone’s on the same page,” Sebastian says. Something about him tells you he’s the oldest of the three. “I’ll start.” 

[Go to Chapter 5: The Underground]


	4. The Reason

You had never been to the offices of the Evening Dispatch newspaper before, but it didn’t look quite like you expected. A somewhat distracted secretary sits at a desk at the entrance to the news room, with a sea of desks cluttered with papers and folders behind her, reporters filling the air with the incessant, irregular tapping sound of typewriters and the smell of tobacco smoke. Apparently most reporters don’t go home at five o’clock like everyone else. 

“Excuse me,” you ask the secretary. She looks up from sorting papers. 

“One minute, please,” she tells you. “Baz! Transcript’s in!” she yells over her shoulder. One of the men at the desks rushes over, and snatches the papers from where she holds them up for him. 

“Thanks, Mary,” he tells her as he makes a beeline back to his desk, already skimming over the papers. 

“Are you here to talk to someone?” Mary asks, her voice relatively kind, but somewhat brusque. 

“I need to speak with whoever is covering the disappearances in Old Weft,” you tell her. 

“That’d be Mr. Doyle, but I think he’s…” she turns over her shoulder and yells again. “Luis! Did Mr. Doyle go home already?” 

A young man with dark hair and round glasses looks up from a desk at the far corner of the room to call back “Yes!” 

“Bother,” she says under her breath, with the intensity with which someone usually says something much stronger. “You could still talk to Luis,” she tells you. “He covers other stories with Mr. Doyle sometimes. He could pass along whatever it is you wanted to tell him about.” 

“Sure,” you say, accidently sounding somewhat uncertain. 

“He doesn’t bite,” she tells you. “He’s a photographer. Nothing like these nasty reporters.” She gives you a wink. 

You head to Luis’ desk, which is decorated with a camera and various bundles, envelopes, photographs with notes on the bottom margins. He looks up from a note he’s writing for an envelope of photographs. 

“I have some information for Mr. Doyle on the disappearances in Old Weft,” you tell Luis. 

“Hang on,” he says, walking around you to retrieve a chair from another desk for you. 

“Thanks,” you sit down. “There are far more people going missing than he’s reporting on.” 

“He mentioned that,” Luis says. “But some of the ones he heard about weren’t mentioned in police reports, so he couldn’t confirm them.” 

“The police aren’t taking most of them seriously. My friend went missing last night, so I went to report it, but they don’t investigate. They didn’t even write it down. They think they’ve run off to escape debts, or they eloped.” Luis sits back in his chair, listening attentively, so you continue. “I know there have been far more people going missing than the papers are reporting, but I thought it was the paper’s fault—no offence.” 

Luis shakes his head a bit and shrugs his shoulders. None taken. 

“But the police aren’t even reporting it. It could be even worse than I thought.” 

“It’s going to be hard to prove something happened to them without evidence,” Luis said. “We don’t like publishing based on rumors.” 

“I can give you names,” you offer. “I don’t know everyone, but there’s been and three others from our block who went missing before Violet. You can talk to their families and employers.” 

Luis gets you a piece of paper and a pen. You start writing names and addresses, who they should talk to. “This is just who I know about. If you ask around, you’ll find more.” 

“Is there any pattern?” Luis asks. 

“As far as I can tell, they go missing early evening. On the way back from work, or… there was a kid out playing in the streets before supper. Around sunset.” 

“Any evidence?” 

“No,” you tell him. “No one sees them go missing. They don’t leave anything behind. It’s like magic. But… a dark kind of magic.” 

“Dark magic?” a new voice asks from behind you. 

You turn to find yourself looking at a tall young man with wild, dark hair. His black suit looks expensive to your well-trained eye. There’s something a bit different about him, but you can’t quite place it. “I love hearing about magic. Hey, Luis!” 

Luis smiles at the newcomer, gesturing for him to pull up a chair and join, which he does. “Apparently there are more people going missing in Old Weft than the police are reporting,” Luis says, filling in the newcomer. 

“And whoever’s taking them leaves no trace,” you fill in. “They leave nothing behind, no one sees or hears them. With this many people, it’s…” 

“Like magic?” the man says. 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m Remington,” he says, offering a hand. “I don’t work here, but Luis is a friend of mine. He—” 

Luis suddenly sits up, tense. His eyes are on the doorway. 

“That guy is here again,” he says. 

Mary at the front desk is arguing with a tall figure in a heavy, dark overcoat. You can’t explain it, but there’s something off about the figure. They haven’t taken their hat off inside, so you can’t quite make out all the features of their face. There’s something unsettling about them. 

Remington swears. 

“Did he follow you?” Luis asks. 

“He must have. Bastard.” 

“He’s looking for the photographs,” Luis says. 

“Of course he is,” Remington practically growls. “I don’t think he’s seen us yet, but how are we going to get them out now? He won’t let me get them home.” 

Luis looks at you. “Do you think…” 

“No,” Remington says. “This is dangerous. I don’t want to get innocent people involved in this.” 

“I can help,” you offer. 

“No,” Remington says. “If they figure out you’re involved in this, they’ll go after you.” 

“I want to help,” you insist. “I know there are awful things going on in this city, but I’ve been feeling like I can’t do anything to change it. Let me help.” 

Remington gives Luis a look. “Okay. The photographs,” he says in a low voice. “How do we get them out?” 

“I have a pocket in the lining of my coat,” you tell them, shrugging it off as if you had just gotten a bit too hot. “If he suspects me, I can go through the main streets where there are more people, so I can blend in and lose him,” you say. 

“Remington, if you go talk to him, and he sees you leave without the photos, he might not follow you,” Luis says. 

“Especially if he talks to you after and sees you don’t have them,” Remington adds. “Then he’d have to figure out where they are, but by that time, they’d be long gone.” 

Glancing up at the figure, still arguing with Mary, Luis reaches into a drawer in his desk and discreetly passes you a rectangular bundle, covered in paper and tied with twine. You take it under the coat in your lap and tuck it into the secret pocket in the lining. They always did tell you being a tailor was a useful profession. 

“I’ll go talk to him and distract him,” Remington tells you. “Then you slip out the back door. Luis will show him he doesn’t have the photos while I leave to get a head start on him.” 

Remington undoes a few buttons of his shirt, and pulls a thin chain out from under his collar. A small gold whistle is on the end. He takes the chain off and presses the whistle into your hands, gently curling your fingers around it. “Go north for a bit, so our paths don’t cross in case he follows me. Once you’re sure you’ve lost him, use this. Henry will come and get you.” 

“Henry?” you ask. 

The shouting between Mary and the hooded man suddenly escalates, the man alternating between pointing at the three of you, and yelling at Mary, who has stood up and started physically standing in the way of the man. 

“We gotta do this now,” Remington says, standing up. “Alright, wish me luck.” 

“Good luck!” you tell him as he heads over to engage with the uncanny figure. 

Remington’s voice changes as he starts talking to the figure. “Do you have a quarrel with me?” 

The figure turns to him and tenses. 

“If you have a quarrel with me, I hope you know you have a quarrel with my whole family,” he warns.

As he talks, Remington slowly walks around the figure, so Remington faces you and Luis, and the figure has to turn his back towards you in order to look at Remington. 

“Down that hall,” Luis whispers, pointing to a door at the back of the newsroom. “Go to the end. It’ll lead out to the alley.” 

“Thank you.” You shrug on your coat with the pictures tucked inside the pocket of the lining. 

“Don’t meddle in the affairs of my family, and I won’t in yours!” The figure’s voice is sharp, with a certain edge to it that sends shivers through you. If you didn’t know better, you might guess that man isn’t entirely human. 

“Go!” hisses Luis, and you quickly dodge through the desks and chairs of the newsroom to make your way through the door and down the hall. 

You arrive out in the alley, the cool air hitting your face. 

You find the main street and join the flow of people, heading north. The sound of footsteps on cobblestones, the regular click of a gentleman’s cane, the softly bubbling chatter of two women all seem oddly calm and normal from the scene you just left. For a moment, you almost think it didn’t happen. But the shiny metal whistle is still in your hand. In the waning light, you can see the glint of gold between your fingers, and just make out a Celtic knot design on the barrel. And as you draw your coat around you, the bundle of photographs presses against you with a soft crinkling of brown paper. 

You take many turns in case the figure—or anyone else—is following you. You try to stay on the main roads to blend in with the crowds going to the pubs or coming back from work, but they’re quickly starting to thin. You can’t be sure you lost any pursuers, but you’re fairly certain you yourself are lost. 

You find a small square where there are still enough people passing through for you to feel safe from spontaneous abduction. Standing just outside of a pub’s brightly-lit windows, you take the mouthpiece of the whistle between your lips and blow. 

Nothing. The muffled sounds of talking and dishes clattering from the pub behind you, and the few people passing through the intersection is all you hear. 

You try again, blowing harder this time. Still nothing. 

Is it supposed to be this way? Remington didn’t have time to explain it. But what if it’s broken? If that’s the case, you’re left here with no idea where you are, and possibly someone… something looking for you, and a bundle of important photographs that you don’t even know the contents of. 

You blow the whistle again. Nothing. The clop of horse hooves and the clatter of wagon wheels as a cart passes by on the opposite side of the street. 

You try again. You can barely even hear the air passing through the end of the barrel. 

Cold starts to set in. Shifting in place and stomping your feet to ward it off, you notice the lamplighter slowly making his way down the street across the intersection. You watch as he carries his ladder to the next lamppost, props it up against the top, climbs up, and lights the lamp, adding another pool of warm light to the chain of illumination stretching out behind him. Then he descends, picks up his ladder, and moves to the next one, to repeat the process he does every night. 

The normalcy and relative quiet of the street only makes you more uneasy as you recall the brief but intense time in the newsroom. The contrast is surreal, and you try not to imagine the figure coming out of nowhere, grabbing you, making you disappear like Violet and the others from Old Weft. Maybe it was them who took her. The figure and his… family? That’s what he had said to Remington. But the words seemed somehow more loaded. As if it was more than just a family business dealing. 

Hands shaking slightly (from the cold or nerves you can’t quite tell), you raise the whistle to your lips again and blow. 

Nothing. 

A dog barks, high-pitched and sharp from across the intersection. You startle, then laugh as you see it in the sparse light. It’s a small, funny-looking thing. Tan and definitely a mutt, with one ear up and one ear down, and slightly long and coarse fur. Nothing to be afraid of. 

But it’s making it’s way right towards you in quick steps of it’s little paws. Maybe you should be afraid? As you watch, it keeps getting closer, looking right at you. It stops a distance away and looks at you. 

You look at it. The dog has a leather collar with a gold buckle. Suddenly, a thought unfolds in the back of your mind. Raising the whistle to your lips, you blow gently. 

Almost immediately, the dog starts barking again, looking at you. 

“Henry?” you ask the dog. 

He barks once, looking at you expectantly and wagging his tail a bit. 

You glance around, seeing there aren’t many people in the intersection, and not many within earshot to hear you talking to a dog. You crouch down and look at Henry. “Are you going to take me to Remington?” you ask. 

Henry barks once again, and takes a series of impatient, dancing steps around, looking at you with intense focus. “Yes?” you ask. 

Henry huffs. 

“Okay, sorry, stupid question,” you say. You take a few steps forward and he immediately turns around and starts walking across the intersection and you follow him. He looks back at you to make sure you’re behind him. 

Henry’s nails clack lightly on the cobblestones as he takes small, quick steps. He leads you definitively down streets and around corners. You cut through an alley, trying to move carefully in the dim lighting, but Henry is already at the other end, turning around to look at you and giving an impatient yap. “Hang on,” you tell him. But he doesn’t. You follow him across another intersection. Past closed shops and houses with windows lit. Henry moves fast, not leaving you any time to think about how odd your situation is. He looks back at you every once in a while, to make sure he hasn’t lost you. You’re glad Henry seems to know where he’s going, because you’ve never been to this part of the city before. 

He turns off a side-street of fancy shops, and suddenly, the buildings lining the street are beautiful, grand and very expensive-looking, with rows of old trees on either side, their leaves just starting to turn brilliant colors, almost glowing in the lamplight. This must be in the High Circle neighborhood, where the business owners, bankers, and merchants (and people whose families are rich for some vague reason) have their houses. 

Light spills from some of the windows, a few arched and some with stained glass. Steps lead up to an elevated first level on some, and on others there are well-kept small front gardens that are just starting to fade as fall begins. Intricate wrought iron gates and balconies on one house. A row of alcoves on another. A rounded, turret-like corner. Decorative stone pillars on either side of a door. 

Another bark from Henry stops you staring and snaps you back to the mission. You follow him further down the street, and he suddenly turns onto the neat brick front walkway of one of the houses. 

You stop. The house is three floors, with what must be high ceilings, and alcoves on the top floor. A glow from inside illuminates the first-floor stained glass windows, which have designs of ferns and animals. The front garden is well-kept, with two pruned trees with small red fruits you don’t quite recognize.  
Henry stops at the front door, made of dark, polished wood. It has a sort of design carved into it, almost like a flourish that doubles back on itself, but one that’s taller than it is wide. Henry barks at you. 

You’re not so sure. What if it’s some random rich person? How would you explain bothering them at supper time because a scruffy dog led you to their door? 

Henry sits down and starts barking at the door. Every yap from the small dog that a rich person definitely would not own seems like a jolt on the quiet, opulent street. 

Henry stands up on his front paws, scratching at the door, still barking. 

Just as you’re about to run and grab Henry to save both of you from the wrath of some mill owner’s furious and pretentious daughter, the door opens and Remington stands in the light spilling from the inside. 

“Henry,” he tells the dog in a stern voice. “What did I say about scratching the door?” Henry ignores him and trots inside. 

“Remington?” 

He looks up at you and a smile floods his face. “You made it!” he says. “Come in!” 

As you cross the garden and Remington opens the door wider for you, Henry jumps up at his legs, wiggling and whining. 

“Yes, you did good.” Remington’s tone is no longer stern as he reaches down to scratch behind his ears. “Yes. Good boy, Henry.” 

Remington welcomes you into the front hall. Tile work on the floor has intricate plant and animal motifs. Polished wooden wainscoting and green and gold wallpaper line the walls, and a gently curving wooden staircase leads up to the second floor. 

“You live here?” you ask. 

“Ah…” Remington suddenly seems a bit bashful. “It’s my family’s really,” he says. “But it’s usually just me here most of the time. Did you get here safe? Did the man who was at the newspaper follow you?” 

“I don’t think he did, but I’m sure I would have lost him anyway. What was that? Or… he?” 

Remington pauses. “You have the photographs, right?” 

You shrug off your coat and retrieve the bundle, handing it to Remington just as it had been back at the news room. 

Remington reaches out to take it carefully. “You did take a risk to help us out, so you I guess you should know.” He gestures wish his head for you to follow him. “I’ll show you what I know so far,” he says, leading you thought a door into a library. 

You had been to the public library down town, and even seen the small studies at the houses of a few clients, but this was something entirely different. This was not like any you’ve seen before. Floor-to-ceiling wooden book shelves with a deep shine line the walls and are packed with book. Volumes bound in different colors and shades of cloth and even leather. Matching sets and individual books, small and to large. Some are so small you could slip them into your pocket. A few even so big they can’t fit on the shelves, so they sit on the elaborate desk or the reading table in the middle of the room. Brass railings ring the top of the shelves, and a polished wooden ladder, slightly scuffed on its rungs from use, stands ready to slide to any bookcase, to allow access to the top shelves. A stained glass window with patterns of oak leaves, ferns, and roses has a window seat beneath, lined with a tufted velvet cushion. 

“You must read a lot.” Your astonished eyes roam over the rows of books. 

“Well…” Remington laughs nervously. “Mostly novels.” He brushes his long, thin fingers over the spines of a few books on the shelf. 

“I love novels!” you tell him. “The people who don’t like novels seem to look down on everything fun. But you need to have fun sometimes, or you forget what everything’s for.” 

Remington lights up. “That’s what I keep trying to tell people!” 

“Which one is your favorite?” you ask him. 

“Oh!” he almost jogs over to the desk. “This one just came out,” he says, bringing you a book with a yellow cover and red lettering that says ‘Dracula.’ “It’s about a count who’s a vampire, and he drinks people’s blood. It’s a little scary, but it’s really good.” 

“I’ll look for it at the library,” you tell him. 

“Oh! No, you can borrow it,” he says. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course!” he says. “It gets a little lonely when my brothers aren’t around. So when this is over, you should come say hello. You can tell me what you think of Dracula.” 

“Thanks! Violet loves novels, too. I should—” Violet. Suddenly, there’s a pit in your stomach. 

“Your friend Violet?” Remington asks, cautiously. 

“She went missing yesterday evening,” you tell him. “The same as the others. In Old Weft, around sunset. No trace of her. She just left work and didn’t come home.”

“I’m sorry,” Remington says. His voice is soft and sincere. He slowly sets the book down on the nearest shelf. “I’m so sorry. I read about the disappearances, and it must be awful for their families and friends.” 

“That man who was trying to get the photographs. Do you think he has anything to do with it?”  
“That’s what I’m starting to think,” Remington says. “It might be connected.” 

Remington goes to a bookcase at the far wall, and tips a book forward, pushing on the book case. 

The section of book case swings inward, revealing a hidden room and a strange series of symbols in gold on the edge of the shelf door. 

Following him inside, he snaps his fingers and orb-shaped glass lamps light the room, the walls of the table in the center are covered with maps, lists, and notes. 

“This is what I know so far,” he says, setting the package of photographs on the table. 

He looks back at you to see you starting at him in shock. “You’re…” 

“I’m not crazy, I promise,” he says. “Luis will back me on that.” 

“No, you…” Taking a closer look at the orb-shaped lamps, they appear to have no way to light them with a match or striker, emitting a clear light from a sealed sphere. “How did you…?” 

“Oh!” Remington says. “Sorry, I didn’t think. I guess I should just start explaining things.” 

“That would be good,” you say. 

Remington takes a deep breath and looks at you as he starts. “I’m Fae. A Faerie, some people call us. I’m from the Tuatha Dé Danaan tribe. The man in the newsroom was form the Fomoiri tribe. The two tribes usually get along, but they’ve been starting to take over the opium trade in the city.” 

“Wait, slow down,” you tell him. Your brain is trying to connect children’s stories and drug wars and it’s sending you reeling. “You’re a Faerie?” 

“Yeah.” 

“So are you… are you magic?” 

“I’m not as good at magic as other people,” he says. “Not all Faeries do magic. My brother’s pretty good at it, though.” 

“Okay…” you say, trying to take in the information. If it hadn’t been for the trick with the lights and the fact that Remington just seems a bit different from people you’ve met, you would definitely not find yourself believing him. “So there are different tribes of Faeries.” 

“Yes,” Remington says. “Humans have different nations or royal families or provinces. We have different clans.” 

“And you’re…?” 

“Tuatha Dé Danaan,” he fills in. “The Fomoiri are the ones who’ve started selling opium and wanted to stop us from getting the photographs.” Remington starts unwrapping the package of photos from Luis. “I want to get the elder council to stop them, because they’re the only ones who can. But I needed actual evidence to prove it.” He starts shuffling through the photographs, and puts one on the table, sliding it towards you. 

The photo shows a table in a dimly-lit room that’s both opulent and disorganized, with low mattresses, blankets, what looks like a few oddly-shaped tubes strewn around. It must be one of the opium dens you’d heard about. There weren’t any in Old Weft (that you knew of), but apparently, they were all over Lower Square. The main focus of the photograph, though, was something painted on the wall that was clearly not part of the intended décor. 

“What is that?” you ask Remington, trying to decipher the intricate symbol, but having no luck. 

“It’s a curse,” he says. “A pretty bad one. That one kills. They’re starting to take over opium dens and getting rid of anyone who gets in their way.” 

“And you think this has to do with the disappearances?” 

“I have a feeling it might, but I don’t know how,” he admits. He swears softly. “Sebastian lives near Old Weft, and he’s been keeping track of the disappearances, so he might know if it’s the Fomoiri or not. But it would be a risk talking to him.” 

“Who’s Sebastian?” you ask. 

Remington sighs. “My family is actually in line for the throne, but it’s not as big a deal as it sounds,” he says. “The elder council rules things. They mostly just want royalty to do ceremonial things and not question them.” 

“Is Sebastian on the elder council?” you ask. 

“He was,” Remington says. “But I am now. He’s my brother. He was first in line, but he stormed out a little while back. He didn’t like how they were treating humans.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, suddenly realizing why Remington thinks the Fomoiri might kidnap random people. 

There’s an uncomfortable moment where Remington doesn’t meet your eyes. “Most Faeries don’t like humans. They think they’re dumb and fragile and barbaric.” He aimlessly shifts a few of the photographs around. “The Fomoiri especially. But growing up, we would visit human cities a lot, so we know you’re not like that. You’re a little different from us, but not that much. And the ways you’re different… Humans will take risks. They’ll help each other more. And they’re more vulnerable. I think a lot of Fae see that as being weak. But it’s not. It’s strength, if anything. Faeries—in court especially—will pretend they’re invincible, and that they’re never wrong. Humans are… messier, but it’s worth it. They live fuller lives.” Remington pauses. “I wish I could be like that.” He looks up at you again. “But most of the elder council has never even seen a human, and they won’t even admit there’s a chance they’re wrong about them. So they either pretend they don’t exist, or they don’t care at all when humans get hurt.” Remington is getting visibly frustrated. “It drives me crazy. Sebastian just called them out and left, and I understand why he did.” 

“I think I like this Sebastian,” you say. “Why is talking to him a risk?” 

“He’s been cast out, essentially,” Remington explains. “I have to stay the crown prince in order to have any say in things. And if I leave too, it would throw things into chaos, because Emerson sure wouldn’t agree to that. If they know I’ve been talking to him, it would endanger that. The Fomoiri are represented in the elder council too, and it’s going to take a lot to convince them to do anything to stop whatever’s going on.” 

“If he can help, I think it’s worth the risk,” you say. “Maybe we can solve this before anyone else goes missing or gets killed.” 

Remington considers for a moment, leaning with his palms on the table, glancing over the maps and notes in front of him. He looks up at you, determined. “You’re right. Damn the politics. This is about people. We’ll get Emerson here, too. He might know something, or at least be able to help figure things out.” 

Remington retrieves a bronze hand mirror with oak trees on either side of the glass. “Sebastian!” he calls. 

The face of the mirror turns milky, but doesn’t do much else. 

“Sebastian!” he repeats. 

Still nothing. “Typical,” Remington mutters under his breath. 

But then a face materializes in the mirror. With a sharp square jawline and defined cheek bones, you could definitely believe that’s Remington’s brother. 

“Remington!” Sebastian greets him, obviously happy to see him. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.” 

“Sebastian, can you bring everything you have on the disappearances in Old Weft?” Remington asks. 

“Now?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Sure!” Sebastian says. “See you in a bit.” Sebastian’s face disappears from the mirror. 

“Okay,” Remington mutters, then looks at the mirror again, and says “Emerson!” 

The mirror gets opaque again. 

“Remington!” A face slowly forms in the mirror of a young man with smile dimples and bright eyes, wearing a strangely worn-out hat. “My lovely brother. What are you up to this evening?” 

“Emerson, do you know anything about the Fomoiri living in the city?” he asks. 

“I might be keeping tabs on them,” Emerson says coyly. 

“Meet at the house. I think they might be involved in disappearances and the opium trade. I need your help figuring out what’s going on.” 

“Sounds like something they don’t want us doing.” Emerson has a mischievous look in his eye. “I’ll be right there.” 

*** 

Sebastian arrives first, announced by Henry’s barking at the door. Remington and Sebastian (who is also very tall and wearing a well-tailored suit) hug quickly before Remington asks “Did you bring your notes?” 

“Yeah. What’s this about?” Sebastian asks, curiously. 

“I’ll explain when Emerson is here,” Remington tells him. “Oh, and don’t worry about what you say,” Remington says, glancing at you. “We’re all involved in this now.” 

“Good to meet you,” Sebastian says, shaking your hand. 

A soft rapping on the front door again sends Henry back to barking in the entrance hall. But this time, when the door is opened, the barking turns to growls. 

Emerson and Remington hug, but that does nothing to quell Henry’s suspicions. 

“You better watch out,” Emerson mutters emphatically, eyes locked with Henry. “I’ll ruin you.” Henry growls, low and quiet. “I’ll eat you, you mutt.” Henry suddenly barks, his ears back. 

“Emerson!” Remington admonishes. 

“Hm?” Emerson says, his face suddenly pleasant as he looks at Remington. 

“Stop being mean to Henry.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emerson says, blithely maintaining a mask of faux innocence. 

Remington shakes his head. “I don’t know what the problem is with you two, but I just wish you’d get over it. Anyway, thanks for coming.” 

“Well, I heard you needed some help with making trouble,” Emerson replies. “So of course I’d be here.” 

When all three brothers are assembled in the side room, Remington begins. 

“We all know that there’s something bad going on in the city, and the Fomoiri who are living here are probably causing it. But in order to solve this, we’re all going to have to share what we know.” 

[Go to Chapter 5: The Underground.]


	5. The Underground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***  
> If you've been waiting for this, I'm sorry it took longer than expected, but it's finally here! And if you've commented at any point, I love you and I really, really appreciate it.  
> ***

Standing in the room off the library, the lamps casting an even glow across the maps and notes, Sebastian starts talking. 

“People started disappearing around two months ago,” he says, putting a list of the names of the missing on the table. He starts marking off on a map where the disappearances he’s been cataloguing might have occurred. 

“Maybe more,” you add. “Especially if they started by taking people they knew wouldn’t be missed.” 

“Exactly,” Sebastian says. “Since we all know the police and the papers haven’t kept track of every disappearance, we have no idea how many people they’ve actually taken. It’s at least twenty, but it’s probably closer to forty. It could even be fifty or sixty. They’ve been getting bolder in who they take and how many they take. The good news is that is seems like it’s just in Old Weft. There haven’t really been people mysteriously going missing in other parts of the city.” 

“That makes sense,” Emerson says, tugging gently on a map underneath the one Sebastian is marking. He holds out a hand to you with expectant eyes. You notice the wax pencil laying on the table in front of you and pass it to him. 

“This is a map of the sewer systems in the city,” he explains, using the red wax to highlight certain lines sprawling across the map. “I’ve been suspecting for a while now that they might be using the maintenance tunnels to move around in the city, since they like caves. The style of tunnels in Old Weft are large enough for a few people to walk through. It looks like they’re better-connected, too. Large enough to force someone along with you, or carry them if you needed to. And they have doors set into the ground instead of manholes. Easier to drag people into.” 

Was that what they did to Violet? Dragged her into the tunnels? Did she know what was happening? How long was she underground? 

Remington must have noticed your expression, as he gives you a quick look and quickly changes the subject. 

“The Fomoiri aren’t just in Old Weft, though,” he says. “I started noticing signs of them in the Lower Square area. They’ve been taking over the opium trade. It started with just selling, but a few months ago, they got violent. They started killing other opium dealers.” Remington points to a few red points on a map on the wall. “These ones were first. I’m thinking that whatever happened that made them start killing made them start kidnapping people, too.” 

“How do you know all this?” Sebastian asks, staring at the map and its intricate markings and notes. 

“You remember Luis, the photographer from the newspaper?” he asks his brothers. They both nod. “He’s been letting me know if anything looks like it might have magic involved. The police couldn’t figure out what killed the opium dealers. I recognized it as a Fomoir curse. They’re starting to pressure the opium dens into buying from them,” he points to a few buildings outlined in orange with checkmarks on them. “And they’ve started killing people when they say no.” Other orange-outlined buildings have Xs on them. 

“Wait. So you’ve been tracking them this whole time?” Sebastian says, indignant. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could have helped each other.” 

“Why do you think? If I was caught taking with you, I might lose my position, and all this progress would be for nothing,” Remington explains. “No one in the elder council is going to believe what’s going on without proof, and we need someone in good standing to present the evidence to them. Otherwise, they’ll do nothing.”

“Forget the elder council!” Sebastian says. “We could have had this figured out weeks ago. We could have saved people! You should have told me earlier!” 

“And then what would we do?” Remington asks. “Fight the whole Fomoiri clan on our own? We need the elder council on our side.” 

Sebastian makes a dismissive noise, rolling his eyes. 

Now it’s Remington’s turn to be indignant. “It was easy for you when you told the elders to go fuck themselves and ran off to live with humans. You think I didn’t want to do that too? But if I left, there would be no one in the court who gives a damn about humans. So I got stuck with having to play along with all their stupid politics. Alone. With no help. Because you couldn’t keep your big mouth shut.” 

“Emerson wasn’t there to help you either,” Sebastian points out. “Why aren’t you mad at him?” 

“Emerson didn’t suddenly storm off one night, giving me political shit that took months of apologizing to smooth over. Emerson didn’t throw me into being the crown prince, leaving me with responsibilities that no one prepared me for! Emerson didn’t run away because things got hard.” 

“I left because I didn’t want to be a part of that system! Don’t fault me for its problems, because I’m not a part of it anymore!” 

“Great job, dumbass!” Remington is so tense he might snap. “But the system is still there. It didn’t magically fix itself when you left, it just got worse. And now I’m trying to keep it from letting humans get kidnapped and die, but it’s not going very well because I have no help since you left.” 

“Maybe you just need to stop reading so many novels and actually pay attention to what’s going on in the real world,” Sebastian snaps back. 

“Oh, right…” Remington bristles, his tone suddenly darker. “Because reading a book makes me irresponsible. I should have just thrown a bitch fit and run away from all my problems instead. After all, that’s what ‘responsible’ princes do, right? Like the one with an ego bigger than his brain?” 

In a split second, Sebastian jolts around the table, towards Remington, and Remington leaps forward to meet him. 

“Hey, HEY!” Emerson says, trying to get himself in between their punching and grappling in the narrow, crowded room. You try to help Emerson, getting in front of Sebastian as Emerson pulls Remington back from behind. 

Sebastian flails against you, nearly knocking you into the table, but you refuse to let go and he stops, still staring daggers at Remington, but reluctant to risk hurting you. His breath is deep and fast, his glare locked on Remington. Remington is still tense and defiant as he looks at Sebastian. 

Emerson strikes a surprisingly serious tone as he tells them “We’re wasting time. You need to calm down, or we’re not going to stop the Fomoiri.” 

Remington shakes off Emerson, still glaring at Sebastian, but no longer looking like he wants to make his older brother the next missing person who’s never heard from again. Sebastian relaxes just a little, and gently shrugs you off of him. 

You decide to risk something. “I don’t know about the politics of the Fae, but meeting you three and seeing that you actually care about the people going missing gives me a lot of hope. All of us in Old Weft have been living in fear for months now. The people who are supposed to protect us aren’t helping, so I think it’s amazing you care about us when you’re not even humans. Thank you. You’ve all gotten a lot closer to solving this than anyone else has. And you’re a lot closer to bringing Violet home than anyone else.” 

“We are,” Sebastian says, correcting you. “You’re part of this too.” 

“But we need to finish figuring this out so we can actually help people,” Remington says. “That’s what this is all about, right?” 

Sebastian nods. 

“Can I stop playing peace-keeper now?” Emerson asks. “I’m not used to this. It feels weird.” 

“So,” you say, as the mood diffuses. “I guess the question is… what changed two months ago when the Fomoiri started killing opium dealers and kidnapping people?” 

After a pause, Emerson speaks. “What if they’re getting more opium? They have the supply, so they need to make more demand. Simple perversion of economics.” 

“That would make sense, except they’re not messing with the supply chains of the other dealers, just the dealers themselves,” Remington says, shuffling some papers on the table to pull out a sheet of notes. “So if they’re not stealing it, where are they getting it from?” 

“What if they’re getting it on their own?” Sebastian asks. “A separate supply route.” 

“But why would they need so many kidnapped people for that?” you ask. “Even if they need more people to sell it, or sneak it into the city, they wouldn’t need that many. The kidnappings are at… what… thirty? At least? And they’re not slowing down.” 

“And there’s no evidence of a new supply route into the city,” Remington adds. “The port, the railways… nothing looks out of the ordinary.” 

“Hm…” Sebastian says, gazing at the notes and maps in front of him. 

“Besides, if the kidnapped people were working in other parts of the city selling or trafficking, someone might have recognized them by now,” Emerson adds. 

“What if they’re growing it?” Remington asks. “They’d need workers to grow it for them. Kidnapped humans become workers, workers make more opium, so they start getting more aggressive about their territory so they can sell more of it.” 

“But where are they growing it?” you ask. “If it’s somewhere else, wouldn’t it be easier to take people from closer to where it’s being grown? How would they get them out of the city? And you said there was no evidence of a new supply route.” 

“They could be growing it closer than we think,” Remington says. “If it’s close or even in the city, that would explain why I haven’t been able to figure out how it’s getting in.” 

“Can you even grow it around here?” you ask. 

Remington and Sebastian look at Emerson. So you do too. 

“What?” Emerson says. “You know I’ve never touched that stuff. Other things, yeah. But not that.” 

“We’re not saying that,” Sebastian tells him. “You’re the plant person. Could someone grow opium around here?” 

Emerson thinks. “I don’t see why not. There’s just not a lot of space in the city. In order to grow enough opium to make it worth it… people would have noticed by now. And when winter comes the plants will die if they’re outside. So pretty soon there would be no more opium for the winter. Not a very smart business plan.” 

“What about inside?” you ask. The three turn to you. “You know those glass houses rich people have exotic plants in? They let light in, but keep the frost out.” 

“That’s… actually possible,” Emerson said. “I’ve never heard of it for poppies, but in theory, it would work. Especially if they’re using magic instead of sunlight. They wouldn’t need windows to the outside. They could grow it anywhere indoors with enough space.” 

“It’s still the city, though,” Sebastian says. “Is there really a field of opium poppies and kidnapped workers hidden in the middle of downtown somewhere? How has no one noticed?” 

“What if people have?” Remington says. “What if the people going missing stumbled across it?” 

“Old Weft is pretty dense,” you tell them. “And I don’t see how Violet would have found it. She takes the same walk home every day, and she isn’t the type to pry into other people’s business.” 

“Is there enough room in the sewer tunnels somewhere?” Remington asks. 

Emerson shakes his head. “No…” he looks over a map. “The they aren’t wide enough and there’s no large rooms. Is there anywhere in the city people just… don’t go?” he wonders, turning to trace his fingertips over the maps on the wall. 

“I still don’t think it’s in the city. Do you know how crowded this place is?” Sebastian says. “There’s barely enough room for people to just live sometimes.” 

“Oh.” 

You all turn to look at Emerson. He stares up at the map in front of him, a look of awe and dread on his face. 

“What is it?” you ask. 

“I thought they might be using it, because they like the underground. But I didn’t realize…” He reaches up and points to Old Weft on the map, then gently drags his finger down to Lower Square. 

Then he starts going back towards Old Weft, but stops right in between the two neighborhoods. He traces circles with his finger around that part of the map. A part of the map with very few buildings. 

“Oh no,” Remington says, his face pale. 

You get closer to the map to get a better look it. The one building in the area, on the edge of the land, has a cross. It’s marked “St. Cecilia’s.” 

Your blood runs cold. “They’re… they’re in the graveyard?” 

“Probably the network of catacombs,” Emerson says. “If you can get soil in there, and use magic to give the poppies light...” 

“They’re keeping people underground. In the tombs. To grow opium,” you say to clarify, hoping someone will correct you. But no one does. 

“We need to destroy these Fomoiri,” Remington says, a sudden hard edge and determination in his voice. 

*** 

Cemeteries aren’t as bad during the daytime. But it’s full night by the time the four of you reach the graveyard next to St. Cecilia’s church. The street lights go along the roads that surround the graveyard, but not into it. The shadows and grey edges of the grave markers in the feeble light make something primal in the back of your brain stand at attention, on edge, waiting to detect a threat before it’s too late. 

“According to the maps, there’s only one entrance, since they closed the entrance from the church a century or so ago,” Emerson says. “The Fomoiri probably dug extra tunnels, but knowing them, we won’t be able to find them from the outside.” 

“You want to do the honors, Rem?” Sebastian asks, holding up a small brass lantern with one circular opening for the light to pass through at the front. Remington carries one too. 

Remington starts singing, his voice surprisingly rough and solid. It takes you a moment to realize he’s not speaking English. 

An unearthly bluish light illuminates both lanterns at once, making you jump as one shines in your eyes. 

“Sorry,” Remington says, pointing his away from you. 

“Alright,” Sebastian says. “Where’s the entrance to the catacombs?” 

“A bit farther back in,” Emerson says. “It looks like it’s just one of the mausoleums.” He starts leading the way. “Watch your step,” he calls over his shoulder. “The ground can be uneven in some places.” 

“I’m beginning to think you know this place a little too well,” Sebastian announces. 

“Each mausoleum is like a sample of the architectural fads from the time it was made,” he says. “A spectacular specimen of gothic architecture the size of a large garden shed.” He points into the shadows towards one of the mausoleums. It does indeed have some nice gothic arch details. But the light just casts eerily sharp shadows on the stone, making you quicken your pace. “Of course, it’s easier to draw in the daytime…” 

After weaving through the stone slabs, statues, and structures, Emerson slows down in front of a small building, looking up at it. The entrance is imposing, the building made of a dark stone with heavy wooden doors with metal strapping. A massive lock set into the doors keeps them closed. 

“Do you have the lens?” Emerson asks Remington. 

“Yeah…” Remington’s lantern has a glass circle on a loop held above the opening, and he shifts it down so the light passes through it, turning the light green. 

Pointing the light at the doors of the catacombs, shining symbols and lines are suddenly visible all over the door, the frame, and the lock. 

“Yeah…” Remington remarks. “They’re definitely here.” 

“Damn. I guess you were right, Emerson,” Sebastian says. 

“Well, that’s the only time you ever doubt me, so I’m not surprised,” Emerson comments. 

“Hey, not every time,” Sebastian says. “What about when—” 

“Do we have time for this?” Remington asks. 

“Right,” Sebastian says. “Well, I guess we’re in the right place.” 

The lock holding the double doors together is made of solid brass, and has its own set of symbols covering it. 

Emerson reaches up to touch it, and it springs open. 

“Well… that was easy.” He opens it and starts pulling at the door. 

“Was that too easy?” Sebastian asks. 

“Probably opens for any Fae.” Emerson heaves open one of the doors. “After you, Prince Sebastian.” 

“Oh, definitely not,” he says. “You first.”

“I’m not the one with the light,” he points out. 

Sebastian cautiously steps through the door, and you hear his shoes on the stone steps, slowly making their way downward. Emerson goes next and you follow. Remington takes the green lens off again to give more light to illuminate the steps as he brings up the rear. 

Stepping into the catacombs, a feeling of stillness and tension slowly washes over you. It’s quiet. Silent, except for the footsteps. The stairs are broad and solid, and take you down. And down. It doesn’t smell like you thought it would. It’s not terrible. It’s mostly dry and a bit musty. Air that hasn’t has wind or rain or sun for a while. It doesn’t feel natural. 

Eventually, you reach the bottom of the steps. A wide hallway with a vaulted ceiling stretches out in front of you, with pitch dark doorways to side tunnels or rooms at seemingly random intervals. 

“Let’s go down this main hall first,” Sebastian suggests. “We can check all the branches off from it, and if something looks suspicious, we can all investigate.” 

“Sounds good,” Remington says. “I can take the ones on the right if you want the left.” 

You follow behind Remington, watching when shines his light into a room or a tunnel. But you’re not sure what you’re looking for. 

Your small group makes its way down the hall. The footsteps and the squeak of the lanterns swinging on their holders don’t fill the space. If anything, they make it seem emptier. 

As Remington sweeps the light across a side room, something casts murky, crouching shadows. 

You start, freezing with your eyes on the place where it is that’s again in impossibly black darkness. 

“What was that?” you whisper. 

“What was what?” Remington says in a low voice, suddenly looking as alert as you. 

“There was something in the room.” 

With wide eyes, Remington looks to you, then his bothers in turn. Taking a few careful, quiet steps back to the arched doorway, you all watch with unshakable attention as he shines the light in again. 

It’s… some logs. With mushrooms growing on them. 

You heard Sebastian let out a breath. 

It looks so quaint and out of place in the orderly, somber setting under the harsh, accusing beam of light from the lantern that you can’t help but crack up a little. No demon dog, no body, no Fomoiri ready to grab you by the throat. Just… a log with mushrooms. 

Remington tries to not laugh too. “You scared me,” he tells you. “I thought it was… you know.” 

“Sorry,” you say, trying to get serious again. 

Emerson walks into the room, looking around. 

“It’s fine,” Sebastian says. “I thought it was going to be something important.” 

“It might still be,” Emerson calls from inside the chamber, his voice echoing slightly against the bare stone walls. He crouches in front of one of the logs, looking at it closely. “Remington, can I get a little more light?” 

Remington walks in after him, and you and Sebastian follow. The light illuminates the inscribed panels on the walls and the out-of-place logs, as well as an oddly clean floor with a pile of ashes in the center. 

Emerson tilts his head, examining the fungi. “Pretty sure that’s some kind of Psilocybe,” he says. “Makes for an altered state of consciousness in whoever consumes it.” 

“Fucking hell,” Sebastian says. You catch him rolling his eyes in the dim light. “How does he know everything?” he asks you. 

“They’re fun sometimes,” Emerson says. “An interesting experience, but I start to forget what day it is… and whether or not I’m a cloud.” He straightens and turns around. “It’s not as addictive as opium, but it could make someone very… suggestable.” 

“The kidnapped workers.” Sebastian sounds grim. “Are they using it to control them?” 

“This is way more elaborate than I thought.” Remington says. 

Emerson gestures for Remington to shine the light on the floor near the pile of ashes. “Put the lens on.” 

The room turns green as the lens slides over the light again. Intricate lines and symbols surround the area. 

“They’re using the hallucinogens to give the spell extra power. Looks like a servitude spell…” Emerson’s eyes roam over the lines. “But there are things here I don’t know. They might be—”

“Shit!” Remington’s voice cuts through the still air. 

“What?” you ask, startled. 

Staring, Remington points the light towards the floor near the entrance to the room.

Emerson looks up. In gleaming lines, a design is drawn on the floor across the threshold of the passageway, and all the way up and around the arched frame. “Shit,” he states definitively. 

“Well shit,” Sebastian agrees blankly. 

“What is it?” you ask, still frozen in place. 

“Don’t step on it,” Emerson tells you, walking carefully towards it. “It’s a trap spell.” 

“They knew we might try to get in here,” Sebastian says. 

Emerson crouches down to examine it, leaning close to it and sniffing. “Hm,” he says, reaching out towards part of the very inner line. 

As soon as his finger makes contact with it, a flash of red light crackles along the spell lines, and he yanks his hand back, hissing and shaking it to try to diffuse the pain. “Bastards. Thought so. We won’t be able to cross it.” He looks at you. “But you might be able to. It might only be for Fae, so as long as you don’t step on it… you might get through.” 

You look down at ancient symbols scrawled across the doorway. 

Sebastian hands you his lantern. “Are you willing to try?” 

Taking it from him, the heft of the wire handle in your hand, you look up and notice all three of them looking at you. You nod. You’ll give it a try. Standing in front of the line and holding your breath, you take a quick step across it. 

Nothing happens. 

You’re outside the room. 

“Oh thank fuck,” Remington says. 

“You should go back out the way we came in,” Sebastian tells you. “We’ll figure this out somehow. They probably won’t hurt us, but they would hurt you.” 

You take a deep breath, then let it out, collecting your thoughts. “I’m not giving up on Violent and I’m not leaving you,” you tell them. “So what do we do now?” 

There’s a pause as they all look at you in the blue-green light, the faint, inconsequential-looking design separating you from them. 

“I want you to try to break us out of this,” Emerson says, locking eyes with you. 

“I don’t know how,” you tell him. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll direct you. If objects can pass through the trap, I’ll give you my supplies and you’ll have everything you need.” 

“We have no idea what kind of magic we’re up against,” Sebastian says. “There might be traps in place to keep us from breaking it. You’re good at magic, I know, but you’re not perfect and we don’t know what we’re up against. It’s too dangerous.” 

“Okay, Prince Sebastian,” Emerson scoffs. “What’s your brilliant idea?” 

Sebastian turns to you. “I need you to find the leader, and get this on him.” Reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, he opens what looks like a cigarette case, but inside is a chain necklace. “It stops the wearer from using magic. He probably cast the spells, so if you get this on him, it’ll break the trap, and the enchantment on the workers.” 

“No, that’s way too risky,” Remington says, shaking his head. “How could anyone—especially a human—get close enough to a Fomoir to put a necklace on it? What if the one who cast the spells isn’t even here? And what do we do if it doesn’t work and we all get caught? You know what they’re like. You can’t just put someone in that much danger,” he says, gesturing to you. 

“Alright,” Sebastian says, getting poised and defensive. “If you’re so smart, what do you think we should do?” 

Remington takes a breath and looks at you. “Can you blend in with the workers?” he asks. “I can give you something to try to break the spell. I don’t know plants for shit, but I can work enchantments using songs. If you find the workers and sing it, you can snap them out of it. If they’re harvesting opium from the poppies, they’ll have knives. They’ll remember who they are and they’ll have something to fight back with, and humans are incredible. That’s all they need to rebel. I’ll teach you the song.” 

“Oh, great,” Emerson says dryly. “A bunch of humans with knives rioting in catacombs. What could go possibly wrong?” 

“Well what happens if you set off another trap when you’re trying to undo this one?” Remington asks, his raised voice echoing off the arched stone ceiling. “Every plan has risks. I can’t predict the future and neither can you!” 

“If breaking the spell doesn’t work, we can figure out what to do from there,” Emerson insists. “It would be safer than risking the only one who isn’t trapped getting captured by the Fomoiri.” 

“Hey!” Sebastian’s voice cut in. “You’re forgetting that it’s not up to us.” He looks at you. 

“Right,” Remington concedes, calming down. 

“So.” Emerson says. All eyes are on you. “Which plan do you think is going to work?” 

[To try to break the trap spell with magic and Emerson’s guidance, go to Chapter 6: Asleep on Names of Stone.] 

[To try to blend in with the workers, break the spell on them using Remington’s song, and start a rebellion, go to Chapter 7: Don’t Look So Pretty.] 

[To try to find the Fomoir running the operation and get Sebastian’s chain on him to stop the magic, go to Chapter 8: Dying from the Organized.]


End file.
